


Road Trips are for Suckers

by darlingdontbeafraid



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Alcohol, Eventual Happy Ending, Internalized Homophobia, Light Angst, M/M, Medical Terminology, Queer used as a slur, Slow Burn, WIP, though only what google offers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-06-29 01:17:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 27,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15718941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlingdontbeafraid/pseuds/darlingdontbeafraid
Summary: House was still sleeping on his shoulder. Wilson didn't dare move.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've recently started watching House, and this just sort of got caught in my head.
> 
> Set somewhere in the vicinity of season 3.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What you see here is liable to change until I finish.

"He's never going to go for this," Wilson said, as he sat down in one of the wooden chairs in Cuddy's office. 

Cuddy sighed, and reached a hand across her desk. With a flick of her wrist, she spun a slip of paper towards Wilson over the desktop. "Look at that. He's going to have to go whether he likes it or not." 

Wilson's eyes widened as he read the sum Cuddy's nail-polished finger pointed at. It wasn't as much as Vogler had offered the hospital, but it was damn well close enough.

"We receive all that money _only_ if House and his team are at the conference. I negotiated with the benefactors, and they agreed that House wouldn't have to give a speech. The team will, but at least I can have a rational conversation about public speaking with them." 

"Have you told any of them about this?" 

"Not yet. I'm going to page Foreman, Chase and Cameron once we're done here, but I figured that-," 

"You want _me _to tell House that he's going to have to drive hours away to a conference?!" Wilson pushed his chair back and tilted his head. "He'll probably stab me with a syringe!"__

"As I was saying," Cuddy continued, with a pointed look at Wilson, "I figured that if you told House, he might be more..."

"Pissed at me instead of at you?"

"Accepting. I know, I know, I'm throwing you under the bus. But the hospital could really benefit from the money. The conference itself is a day long, it starts at-" she picked up another piece of paper from the opposite side of her desk, "seven o'clock Thursday morning."

Wilson let out a soft sigh as he rose. "House doesn't even wake up for his job at that hour, much less a meeting that he'll think is a waste."

"The benefactors are providing hotel rooms free of charge. Isn't that nice of them?" Cuddy deadpanned. "I wouldn't even bother making House go if they weren't paying us. House and the team will have to drive up Wednesday, spend the night, go to the damn conference, and then they can leave."

"When do you want me to tell him?" Wilson said, reining in another sigh by crossing his arms. "Today's Monday, I'll wait until Tuesday so he has less time to come up with a way out."

Cuddy grabbed the papers she had refrenced and tapped them together on the surface of the desk as she said, "That will work. Hopefully."

***

"Excuse me, I'm very sorry, but can you stop talking for just a second?" Wilson blurt out, reaching his left hand to the back of his neck in order to scratch a nonexistent itch. 

The patient he had been taking a history on frowned, but stopped talking about her mother's ovarian cancer. Wilson hoped that she wouldn't be too offended to continue in the same level of detail that she had been; they had been in Wilson's office for around an hour already, but Christine was a new patient. Wilson wanted her to trust him, and telling her to stop talking on their first consult didn't bode well.

Right on cue, House swung the door open without knocking. His cane was louder than he realized.

"Wilson, I need you," House said, glancing briefly at the woman who had turned to face him as he'd come in. "So, how soon are you dying?"

Christine gave House a dirty look and began to say, "I'm not-,"

"Yes you are. Wilson, hurry up, my newest patient has a little trouble in the boudoir," House smirked a bit as he curved a hand over the side of his mouth and stage whispered, "his rocket isn't blasting off." House looked directly at Christine and winked. "Just like an oncologist I know, but for different reasons."

Wilson wanted to slide out of his chair and hide under his desk, but that would be unprofessional of him. Someone had to be mature.

"Did you do a DRE?" Wilson asked as he stood. "I apologize again Christine, Dr. House should learn to filter what he says."

"I made Chase stick a finger up the guy's ass, but he didn't feel anything interesting." House was smirking again. "Patient has had prostatitis for a while, but Cameron says he "figured it would just go away". Wow, there's blood in my semen, no worries, bro," House quipped, mocking his patient.

"I'll be right back, Christine."

***

"Why do you have to run your mouth whenever I'm with a patient?" Wilson said, irritation seeping further into his tone the longer he spoke. "Now she's going to think that I'm a rude pervert as she worries about dying!" Wilson zipped up his pants and turned from the urinal to wash his hands. "And why the hell did you mention my love life?!"

"Oh, Wilson, I'm just saving you from being bored. You've been talking to her for an eternity. What are you going to learn about her cancer by talking about her dog?" House said, mock-cheerfully as he zippered his own pants and limped next to Wilson to clean his hands.

"We weren't even talking about her dog when you barged into my office!" 

"I don't care if you were talking about the meaning of life or if there's really a higher power pulling our feeble puppet strings." House made a dismissive motion and flung water all over Wilson's nicely pressed dress shirt.

Wilson scrunched up his face and backed away, trying to avoid looking like he'd taken a dip in one of the toilets behind him as House continued. 

"Cuddy bet me a hundred dollars that I couldn't solve this one by tomorrow morning. Speaking of that," House turned to face Wilson, "why did you want me to come with you to the bathroom? Forget what to do? Trying to jump me?" 

"I wanted to yell at you for intentionally scaring my patient." 

"We're wasting time by standing here chit chatting like old, saggy-breasted women. C'mon." 

Wilson walked down the hospital's glass and wood paneled corridor next to his friend. He looked over at House's indignant face. Wilson was glad Cuddy had made a bet with House; it would keep him busy until Wilson had an opportunity to break the news about the conference. 

As they walked, Wilson's eyes drifted to House's scrubby facial hair. It looked even more unkept than usual. Wilson pursed his lips, and looked up at the hair on House's head. It looked messy, but not I'm-high-on-Vicodin-or-something-else-you-don't-know-about-Wilson messy. Relieved, Wilson wandered to House's eyes. They weren't overly bloodshot, nor were the pupils dilated more than what was acceptable for walking in a hallway with moderate lighting.

"What?" House said, startling Wilson. 

"Huh?" 

"You've been staring at me this whole time." 

_Trying to jump me?_

House stopped walking, and pointed at the door in front of them. "Gregory House, M.D. My secret evil laboratory." 

"Oh. I wasn't paying-"

"I know. Run along to your newest cancer girl, I know you were wondering how long she'd stay in your office when you said you would be right back." 

Wilson would have gone through House's office to get to his own, but thoughts he shouldn't have had were spinning in his head. 

_Trying to jump me?_

He walked faster down the hall. 

_Wilson, I need you._

***

Wilson took one of the black ballpoint pens out of his lab coat's protected breast pocket and tossed it on the desk in the center of his office. He shrugged out of his lab coat, hanging it on the rack in the corner. Wilson moved to the desk, bending slightly with a sigh he would have repressed were he not alone.

With the pen he had cast aside, Wilson wrote

**Vicodin 5/500  
** **2-4 tablets per 4-6 hrs for pain**  
**Disp. #105 (one hundred five)**  
**one week supply**

House was long gone by this hour, even though he was still supposed to be working on his case. Wilson took the prescription in one hand and fished in the largest drawer of the desk. Once his fingers encircled around the cold metal of his car keys, Wilson locked the main door to his office and made the short trip to House's.

"Why doesn't he have—wait there it is." House did have a roll of tape, buried at the bottom of a drawer under stacks of case files he surely hadn't touched since the involved patients were discharged.

Wilson ripped off a section of tape and stuck the prescription to House's computer, where he knew House would find it.

***

The bowl of mush that used to be cereal in Wilson's lap shifted as he stretched his legs on the yellow-and-orange flower patterned bedspread the hotel had provided. He gradually propped himself up from the mountain of pillows he had amassed the previous night to watch The Notebook in comfort. The digital clock on the nightstand, its numbers glowing red in the darkness, announced that it was 3:42 a.m.

"Ante meridiem," Wilson murmured to himself. He rubbed his eyes and sat up further, which turned out to be a bad idea.

The cereal mush was very cold and in a very inopportune place.

If anyone were to walk by James Wilson's hotel room at 3:46 in the morning, they would have heard muffled curses and several noises that sounded like an exceedingly tired person bumping into cheap hotel furniture.

Wilson didn't check his watch when he crawled into bed. It had taken much longer than he though was possible to clean cereal and milk off of the bed and himself. There was no point in making any effort in checking the time. It wouldn't change the amount of coffee he would need to inhale later in the morning.

Minutes transformed themselves into hours under the inexorable flow of time. Wilson laid staring at the ceiling in the same position he had taken up after the cereal fiasco; legs crossed at the ankle, arms snugly under the armpits. His thoughts were currently concerning themselves with his room

_there are a shit ton of cobwebs where the ceiling and walls meet_

but they had been fluttering from patients to what he was going to try and make for dinner tomorrow to House and back again. The ceiling was bland, a yellow-tinted off white. Its whitish surface wavered and darkened under Wilson's closing eyes.

The taste of dust coats the back of Wilson's throat. He looks out the window of a car—his car—and sees nothing but a wall of corn, the plants stretching their callous leaves towards the sunlight spilling down from the heavens. It is very bright, but Wilson doesn't mind. It's comforting.

He looks down at his lap, and notices that he is in the passenger seat. He looks to his left, and there sits House. House drives the pair of them down an unpaved road in what looks like the idealized south; there are perfectly straight rows of trees in the background behind House's face, which stares at the road. The sunlight is everywhere, warm, inviting. Wilson can feel it shining on him from inside the car.

They drive and drive, down the stretching and gently curving path of road. They pass more fields of crops—Wilson thinks he spots beets and potato plants settled into the softly rolling countryside. There are pink and yellow and purple and white wildflowers in the spaces where the fields have gone fallow; maples and oaks and birches occupy the gaps between fields where the farmers can't reach with their equipment. Wilson is unsure as to how he knows what trees and crops grow where. He has visited the countryside, sure, on trips to visit aunts and uncles and distant cousins he's spoken to twice in the course of his life, but not enough to notice every piece of vegetation as he does now. His whole life has been in New Jersey, not this place.

He asks House where they are going, and House says he doesn't know.

They pass a white building—a church, judging by the triangular panes of stained glass at its zenith. House makes a little snorting noise as they speed past it.

They drive, and don't stop. The car leaves a smokescreen of dust in their wake. Wilson points out the window and says House, look, and he does. House looks at the red sided barn with the decorative patch of quilt hanging over the hayloft that Wilson knows he has seen before. His grandfather's farm? Why are they here?

House pulls the car into the driveway and they exit, not needing to speak. They go to the front of the house and knock on the door, painted a light yellow, just as Wilson remembers from infrequent visits as a child. The house itself is completely unchanged; its yellow shutters hang side by side against the open windows, the robin's egg blue of the house itself has not faded. They knock again; Wilson remembers knocking on the door as a small boy. He'd knocked more than necessary once at around the age of five. His grandfather had thought it was hilarious, so Wilson kept to his habit of pounding the wooden frame whenever he visited. It was nice to make him laugh, chuckles and warm arms around his small shoulders.

No one answers the door. Wilson hits it harder with his knuckles, but still no one answers.

House says, he's not here and Wilson wonders how House knows who's meant to be behind the door. Wilson hadn't mentioned this place to him, but he knew regardless.

Wilson peers into the picture window to his right, put his palms on the shelf of the sill just as he had done all those visits ago. He could see the single strip of wallpaper at the top of the wall, still patterned with spirals, still stuck to the cream colored innards of the house. His grandfather's dyed red leather chair is still in its spot in front of the TV. The TV is on, playing a movie Wilson might have watched a minute or two of then turned off. They characters—two men—hold hands as they walk down a path laced with pink cherry trees on either edge. Wilson feels the sunlight burn brighter on his back.

He turns away from his grandfather's house and begins to walk to the barn. Whenever he came to visit, he would play the game of knocking on the door, then made sure to run away to the barn. His grandfather would come out to find him, a big sloppy smile on his lips, and Wilson would giggle as his grandfather pretended not to see him. He would say, my my, maybe James hasn't come to see me after all, I can't find him, and Wilson would pop out of the hay and shout here I am! and run to hug his grandfather. As Wilson had gotten older, they had stopped playing hide and seek, because Wilson felt silly pretending to be a small child when he wasn't. Instead, he and his grandfather would go inside and play chess or poker, or they would cook in the old kitchen.

Wilson goes up the incline leading to the moving panel of the barn that serves as a large door. The panel was the most expedient method of getting farm eqiumptment in and out. He hears House's uneven tread coming closer as he pulls the panel open. Inside are stacks and stacks of hay packed in rectangular bales. Wilson makes a right turn and enters the narrow path between the wall and the little inner room where his grandfather kept various gardening tools. It's full of dust-coated cobwebs and abandoned twine and empty bags that once contained animal feed. He goes through the passage, and it feels longer than he remembers it. He feels like he won't ever get out. Wilson hears House pushing the empty bags out of his way with his cane.

Finally Wilson exits the narrow white walled passage and weaves between the towering stacks of hay, heading deeper into the barn. There's an alcove up ahead, where a much younger Wilson had read books with titles like I Want to be a Doctor and When I Grow Up...; of course, he also liked reading about pirates and adventurers like most other little boys, but something about doctoring always stuck out.

Wilson sits down, centered in the gap in the hay and looks up. The bales touch the ceiling high above. House looks around himself then down at his now covered in hay-and-farm-dirt sneakers. The end of his cane is filty with mud and particles of hay. House sits down next to Wilson, close enough for their knees to touch. Wilson draws his eyebrows together and looks at House but House just stares back. After a moment, Wilson looks at the floor instead.

Another moment passes, and House puts his arm around Wilson's shoulder and squeezes. Wilson is about to ask House what the hell he's doing when House touches a hand to his cheek. Wilson doesn't say anything, only looks at House. His friend is smiling a little. He winks, leaning in.

***

Wilson flew upright in bed, the hair on the back of his neck standing straight. He looked wide-eyed at his surroundings. This was not the countryside he had visited occasionally as a child, not his late grandfather's farm, not the barn where his grandfather had first told him he would probably like being a doctor some gold-backed day in the future. He was in his hotel room, ugly blankets that weren't his own wrapped around his feet. He wasn't with House, and House certainly wasn't sitting close next to him or touching his face or winking at him.

The clock read 7:48. The hospital would be expecting a certain sleep deprived oncologist in twelve minutes. Wilson's jerky, uncoordinated lurches toward the bathroom were succeeded by fumbling for the toothbrush resting on the lip of the sink. Wilson jammed the toothbrush in his mouth and winced as it rammed his gumline. The black comb kept inside the medicine cabinet wasn't in its usual place, but there was no time to search for it. Wilson ran his fingers through his hair and decided that would have to do.

After an all to brief interlude of scrubbing, Wilson tossed the toothbrush in the general vicinity of the sink. It landed against the sink's drain, clinking from the impact. Wilson fumbled his shirt over his head and onto the bathroom floor.

The squat, dark-wooded dresser containing several folded dress shirts opened under Wilson's hands after creaking obstinately and refusing his admittance on the first tug.

"Goddamn stupid thing," said Wilson, buttoning the first shirt he had ripped from the dresser drawer as quickly as he could. He almost forgot to remove the blue pajama pants he had slept in before putting on a much nicer dress pair.

Wilson slung a tie around his neck—he could actually tie it later—grabbed his keys off the table overlooking the window and ran down the hallway outside of his room. Wilson turned the corner that lead to the hotel's main staircase, jutting out an arm to grab the cream colored wall. The leverage prevented momentum from swiping his feet from under his body. He thundered down the stairs, almost tripping at the bottom of the landing.

Wilson came out to face the main lobby. The sliding glass doors were all the way across a room full of people milling about as they checked in our out.

Wilson slowed his breakneck pace to a quick walk and attempted to weave through the throng. To his left, there was a long line of people checking in to the hotel; the line snaked nearly all the way to the landing of the staircase. On Wilson's right, an older woman was saying, "I never even went to your snack bar, let alone buy out the whole thing!" in a high pitched, petulant tone.

Wilson didn't notice the man until he ran right into him.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry, are you okay?" the man said, offering a hand to Wilson from where he'd crash-landed on the carpeted floor.

It was a very thin carpet. The base of Wilson's spine threw little lightning bolts of pain up his back.

"I'm—ah, I'm fine," Wilson grunted, his brow furrowed in discomfort. He took the man's hand

_I'm too old to be falling, goddamn it this hurts_

and the man helped Wilson become a bipedal, human creature again. And damn did Wilson feel a bit like a creature when his stomach heated involuntarily upon seeing the man's face.

The man had a soft, genial expression, which made things much worse. His warm, pleasant brown eyes seemed to want to ask Wilson some innocuous question, but Wilson wasn't sure he would be able to respond without making a fool of himself. The man was a few inches taller than Wilson, and much obviously more muscular. He wore a tight

_way too tight, I can see his_

gray shirt tucked casually into jeans. He had prominent cheekbones underneath dark skin; short, messy hair that reminded Wilson of—

"You sure you're alright? You look a little...," the man's voice tailed off as he angled his head slightly, eyes boring holes into Wilson's.

"Yup, I'm great thank you, for, helping me up," Wilson wasn't sure how his tongue was still forming coherent words. This happened, increasingly as of late. It was overwhelming.

Hard to call it by its name.

"I have to go to work, thanks again, I'm sorry I—,"

"Don't worry about it, it's no problem."

***

Wilson bowed his head to the steering wheel of his car, resting it there. His watch read 8:22.

His spine hurt.

***

House still needed to be debriefed about the conference. It was almost the end of the workday; he was running out of time. Wilson capped the pen he had been filing paperwork with. He left his office through the main door; hemmed and hawed over going into House's office. The blinds were shut at the moment, which was a good thing. The last time he had seen House, he had been arguing with Chase about something—getting roped in wasn't worth the effort. He was avoiding House, just a little. Strange romantic dreams and bumping into attractive men would do that.

 _I'll talk to him_ , Wilson thought. He would, and very soon, just not right now. Instead, he went to the vending machine on the first floor of the hospital.

Rows and rows of cheap, garishly colored foods in packages stared back at him. This vending machine was pretty commonly used by nurses, although none of them were near the alcove the machine was tucked into at the moment.

There were people in scrubs and lab coats and civilian clothes everywhere other than the vending machine; Wilson could see free clinic patients being whisked in and out of exam rooms, nurses carrying stacks of files and pushing supply carts, a lone intern frantically glancing from side to side like he'd gotten lost. The hospital was a big place. It was easy to lose track of where you were meant to be when you didn't know the territory. Wilson's attention crawled back to the machine when the intern gave a resolute nod to no one but himself and set off toward the clinic.

He put a dollar into the slot and scowled as the machine pushed it back out again. Wilson attempted to smooth the bill against the edge of the machine, and after two more tries and a lot of annoyed muttering it worked. He tapped the code E5 and a bag of chips fell into the slot.

Wilson took chips in both hands and held them like they were something valuable. He headed for the elevator, clutching the chips. Wilson's body was on autopilot; thoughts roamed the inside of his skull.

How was he going to convince House that yes, he really did have to go to a very long, very boring conference?

Wilson was still holding the plastic bag of chips and staring at nothing ten minutes later in his office, when the door opened to reveal House. He looked almost happy—at the very least, pleased with himself.

"Did you figure out what the guy with the—bedroom issues—has?" Wilson asked, unable to stop a small smile from creeping onto his face. House seemed at ease, loose, comfortable. Content.

"I had Chase and Foreman poke around his house, and guess what they found in the basement." House said as he laid down on the couch in the corner with his head tipped back over the armrest, facing Wilson.

"Some sort of sex dungeon? What else do people have in their basements?" Wilson felt something warm open up in his chest as House smirked and replied,

"Oh yeah. Tons of fun things like that—furry handcuffs, leather collars, ball gags, you name it, it was in there. Foreman even found a whole box of butt plugs, three of which had tails. He tells me one had blue polka dots."

"Polka dot butt plugs aside, what was really in the basement?" Wilson hadn't stopped smiling.

"Treadmills." House's face wasn't blank, but he had lost the smirk. "Rows and rows of treadmills."

"Oh." The warmth didn't fade, but was changing into something that wasn't exuberance. Something that could see hurt blooming in his friend.

"He has Runner's Hematuria. Serves him right," House's brow darkened, "for all that running. His bladder was killing itself everytime he hopped on a treadmill."

"What about the bloody semen?"

House shuffled his legs up to his chest. "Polyps in the urethra. Boring. Are you going to eat those?"

Wilson had opened the bag of chips, but hadn't taken any out. "I was planning on it."

House stretched out an arm expectantly.

"Oh no, you have money, get your own! I'm not a nineteen fifties housewife who cooks your every meal!"

"Sure you are. You already did all the dishes when you were living with me. Now all you have to do is take my shoes off for me and feed our five children."

"You can buy your own chips, quit trying to beckon them over into your hand."

"Hm, you make a terrible housewife. Way too much complaining." House kept his arm out, waving his fingers.

"Ha," Wilson rolled his eyes, "because you don't ever complain about anything, at all, ever. Speaking of complaining," Wilson said, taking a deep breath, "you have to drive up to a conference tomorrow".

"Why the hell do I have to do that?!" House sat up abruptly, glaring at Wilson. "Cuddy knows I don't do conferences. I'm not going."

"You do when they pay us. Look, I knew you wouldn't want to, but it's only a day long." Wilson raised his palms in the air, deflecting House's chagrin. "Take it up with Cuddy. At least it'll get you out of clinic hours?"

House got off the couch, grabbed his cane and the bag of chips Wilson had conveniently forgotten about,

"Hey! I told you those are mine!"

and stalked away to negotiate with Cuddy.

***

Wilson laid on the bed of his hotel room, the television remote held in his hand. He was looking for a movie, preferably something with a lot of female nudity.

Problem was, he had stopped flipping channels on something that was decidedly not female nudity.

Slinking music and strobing lights pervaded the screen—as well as men in trench coats toting umbrellas. The men prowled on a darkly lit stage, graceful, lithe. Wilson was reluctant to admit the cliché, but they acted like they owned the stage and the screaming women in the audience.

In unison, the men opened their umbrellas. They crouched behind quickly spinning black plastic, then sprang up moments later minus the trench coats. All of them slowly undulated their bodies, hidden only by form fitting white shirts and black pants. The women in the audience screamed again, louder this time, and Wilson wiped his sweating hands on the bedsheet.

Four of them, in the back, slid their shirts off their shoulders, revealing muscle and tanned skin. As each took his shirt off, he raised his arms above his head and flexed bands of muscle to the delight of the audience. The three in the middle followed suit, but the blond one in front kept his shirt on. The man in front let his hands drift down his legs while slightly rotating his hips in short circles as the others bent to the floor. The four at the back of the stage arched their backs, showing off the prominence of their

_oh my god_

buttocks. The music pounded, as did the blood in Wilson's ears. All the men crouching on the stage opened their legs in perfectly synchronized, torturously slow pace. They lingered in that position. The brown haired man on the very back left ghosted his palm over the swell in his pants. The TV audience hollered. Each man in line just barely touched himself, one after another.

The music picked up tempo, increasing urgency. The crouching rows slid to lay chests down on the stage. As before, the one in the back left started and the rest followed one by one. It was planned. Organized. Part of the routine. They thrust their hips at the floor, revolving in and out in time with the music.

**I'll take you to the candy shop**

**let you lick the lollypop**

One of the men in the middle row gave an exaggerated wink to the audience and increased his speed.

**go 'head girl don't you stop**

The heat covering Wilson's cheeks spread to the rest of his face as the men in the back and middle sidled up from the floor, still arching their backs, legs parted. A few of them appeared to have erections. Wilson tried to rationalize. They probably took viagra or some other drug, as part of the show.

**keep going til you hit the spot**

The man in front did a cartwheel off the stage and into the crowd seated at tables, inviting another round of caterwauling. He held a hand to his ear, as if asking the audience if they wanted him to go further. The women shrieked, and he ran a hand down his sweat-sheened chest, pausing above the crotch. The women yelled; a few of them got out of their seats. Wilson's heart beat hard in his chest. He raised a hand to his forehead and it came away damp. This man was one of the few who had an erection. He could see it, extending very obviously.

The blond smiled, took off his shirt, and spread a hand over his groin. The backup dancers copied his movements while rotating their bodies. The blond took hold of his pants, as did the others. They tore the pants off, which was stupid and farcical. Yet Wilson couldn't look away.

**I'll take you to the candy shop**

In sync, the men trailed hands down their toned stomachs and aggressively grabbed at their crotches while

_oh my g—_

crouching low once again. The men jerked their hips rapid fire; almost as quickly as Wilson's pulse. They rolled their stomachs; the one in front tossed hair out of his eyes; clenched the sinews in their legs... one of them closed his eyes and leaned his head back as if he was going to...

Wilson missed the button that would turn off the TV; his hands were shaking. The remote sailed through the air, landing with a crunch as the batteries popped out against the floor. Wilson stumbled off the bed and to the TV, punching the OFF button with a fist.

He stood in front of the blank screen, stiff backed, face hot. His heart was still galloping; his head felt like it was stuffed full of warm cotton.

Worst of all, there was a noticeable bulge in his pants and a darkening stain.

Disgusted with a reaction he couldn't control, Wilson turned back to the bed. This wasn't— he didn't want— it had just been a while, that was why he— why he had gotten so far— Personal justifications aside, the situation was embarrassing enough for Wilson to want to lock himself in the bathroom and never come out again. It would be much easier than ever seeing another face in the flesh and hiding an unavoidable, repellent secret. No matter how many times he had tried to skip away from the allure, he always ended up aware of it, fascinated. Ashamed of wanting, yet still wondering, an unbreakable ouroboros. Tears pricked the back of his eyes, product of frustration and humiliation. He rammed his foot into the metal bed spring.

It hurt. Sharply. Wilson let himself fall and clutched his foot, which was starting to bruise already. Gingerly, he felt for breaks, and didn't find any. The pain diminished his erection, which was a pleasant though not intended result. He hadn't even thought about kicking the bed. It just happened, the only conceivable outlet for the torrents of anger and shame and longing galloping through Wilson's consciousness.

The phone in Wilson's coat pocket rang.

He didn't get up to answer. He laid on the floor, trying to will away the images surging behind his eyelids and the remaining stiffness in his pants. The phone stopped ringing.

A second later, the phone rang again. Wilson had no desire to answer. The pre-ejaculate was starting to dry.

During the fifth ring, Wilson crawled to his coat, reached in the pocket, and took out his phone.

HOUSE, the little screen read. Wilson flipped open the phone.

"Wilson, I've got good news," House said, sounding tinny over the line. "Why didn't you answer earlier? I don't have all night to call you you know, I have porn to watch."

"I was asleep." He hated the unavoidable nasal quality in his voice.

"Are you... crying?" House sounded confused, worried. But that was probably Wilson's imagination running away with him.

"No, why would I be crying?" Wilson did his best to sound affronted, but his voice still came out higher than normal. "What news do you have?"

"You get to join me and the kiddies at the conference. I told Cuddy the only way I would go was if I got two weeks off clinic duty, and if you came, for me."

Wilson winced at the phrasing and acute tightening down below. He involuntarily hiccuped. _Damn it,_ he thought.

"Are you sure you're not crying? You okay?" House must have been moving; Wilson could hear muffled crackling noises under his words.

"I told you, I'm not crying. I'm fine." Wilson rubbed his eyes. "So now I have to sit in a car for hours with you four?" He didn't really care at the moment. It would be more distracting than sitting alone in his office with no one but patients and illicit images to keep him company.

"Yup. It'll be horrible. Goodnight, Wilson." House hung up.

Wilson kneaded his eyes again, and put the phone back in his pocket. He shuffled to the bathroom to clean up, then crept into bed. He felt incredibly tired.

Thankfully, he didn't dream.

***

In the morning, Wilson packed a suitcase for the trip. In the more rational light of day, he was annoyed about going to this stupid conference. There wasn't any conceivable way to wriggle out of it. As he folded a shirt, he wondered how it would go. Most likely, not well.

Wilson left his room and made his way to the lobby. It was busy, but not as busy as it had been a day ago. Lines of people sprawled arcoss the room; this time, though, Wilson was careful to mind where he was going.

He hopped in his car, started the engine, and pulled out of the hotel's parking lot. Classical music drifted out of the speaker system. Wilson felt a little tension flow out of his body in response to the soft notes of piano. He turned the music up.

The drive to Princeton Plainsbourough was quiet, boring, even. It was nice.

Wilson pulled into the parking lot, got out of the car, walked several hundred feet, and was accosted by Chase.

"We need to decide what car we're taking," Chase said, his tone clipped with irritation. No one wanted to attend the conference, it seemed.

"I don't care," replied Wilson, speeding up a little to get inside, "as long as it's not mine."

Chase didn't say anything, just crossed his arms and increased his pace.

"Are we, meeting somewhere when it's time to leave?"

"Yeah," said Chase, "House's office. We're leaving as soon as he gets here. If he ever gets here." Chase punctuated the last statement with an eye roll.

Wilson emitted a small laugh, and they went inside the building. "Are you okay? You look a little..." Chase trailed off and gestured to his face. "What?" The question took him by surprise. "I'm fine, just tired."

***

Inside his office, Wilson took off his lab coat. He hadn't even realized he put it on; he was used to wearing it at all times in the hospital. He pulled a thick sweatshirt over his head. Most of the leaves were off the trees at this point; the world was revolving its way toward winter, bringing colder weather with it.

Wilson was glad he only had one patient coming into the clinic today. The others were hospitalized. Cuddy would make sure there was someone to cover them. Marvin had squamous cell carcinoma which was, thankfully, responding well to treatment. His visit today was meant to be a check in. Marvin's house wasn't far from Princeton Plainsborough, which would make cancellation less of a problem. Wilson peered at the older gentleman's file in search of his number.

"Hello Marvin, it's doctor James Wilson. I'm so sorry to cancel your appointment with so little notice, but I've been called away to a day-long conference that requires hours of driving to get to. You're doing excellently with the surgeries—"

Someone knocked on Wilson's door.

"you're doing very well, and I apologize again but we're going to need to reschedule your appointment. My personal number is 609-267-1743. I ask that you call—"

The knock sounded again. Wilson picked up the phone, tucking the mouthpiece against his cheek and shoulder, and opened the door to admit Foreman.

"That you call at a, reasonable time. More chance to use your new phone, right? Thank you, tell Janet hi for me."

"Chase wants to take his truck," Foreman said, his voice calm and collected. "And House still isn't here."

"I'm sure he'll turn up at some point. Or Cuddy will have his head mounted in her office," Wilson put the phone back in its place on the desk as Foreman huffed a soft laugh. "I don't mind taking Chase's truck."

Foreman turned to leave. As he was heading out the door, hand on the knob, he hesitantly asked, "Are you okay?"

Wilson blinked. "Yeah, I'm fine."

_I must look terrible. Serves me right._

***

"What's up, bitches! How are my favorite team of black, Australian, and female?" House's yells reverberated into Wilson's office. He shook his head, loosing gossamer strands that might have been thoughts clouding his brain. He puffed air through his nose

_showtime_

and made his way to House's office. House sat in his chair, his feet propped up in a lackadaisical manner on the table. Cameron was in the middle of telling him something, judging by her open mouth, but upon Wilson's enterance, House cut her off.

"My God, Wilson, you look like you rolled out from under the rear end of an elephant. You have bags under your eyes the size of Cuddy's ass!"

"Thanks," Wilson said slowly, acid dripping from his tone. "You look great too."

House didn't. He had a pinched, tired expression, and his own set of bags under his eyes. Wilson narrowed his eyes at House; House stared back. A beat passed. House winked.

Wilson swore he could smell the earthy, sweet scent long-dry hay imbued. He suddenly found his shoes very interesting.

"What are you all gaping at?" House snapped at Chase, Cameron, and Foreman, who had exchanged perplexed glances.

"Nothing," Chase said, too quickly. "Are we ready to go?"

***

House made a beeline for the front seat of Chase's tomato red pickup truck. He stood with his hand waiting on the handle, petulantly telling Chase to unlock the door.

"No, you're not sitting up front. Foreman, you take shotgun." Chase clasped the keys in his right hand. Foreman smiled, and Cameron asked,

"Why can't I sit up front?", hands on her hips, at the same moment House whined,

"I'm the cripple here, I deserve shotgun. Muscle infarction, anyone? Massive pain that will be worse in the back seat?"

Chase pointedly ignored House. "It's not Tuesday, Cameron. You can drive after, if you want."

Cameron pursed her lips but nodded. She climbed in the back left seat of the truck. Foreman took shotgun with a triumphant air, and Wilson hastily climbed in the middle. He didn't want the middle seat, but the desire for House and Cameron not to sit together outweighed his discomfort.

House was muttering under his breath. Wilson caught the words "Cuddy", "fucking stupid conference", among unintelligible others.

"How would sitting in the back seat make your leg worse?" Wilson asked, his voice soft so the others wouldn't hear.

"It wouldn't." House clambered into the right seat, his hand slipping on the black leather. "Just trying to guilt them."

"Looks like you need to work on your manipulation skills," Wilson snickered. "What's the saying? You catch more flies with honey..."

"Shut up, Wilson," House said in a slightly less irascible tone. House spread his legs, one of them bumping into Wilson's.

"Personal space," Wilson said, exasperated at the thrill that went up his spine as House's leg pressed his. House didn't move.

Chase pulled out of the parking lot.

***

Around half an hour had gone by, and Wilson was regretting not fighting to get out of this trip. Chase had the radio playing country music very, very loudly. In intervals, House would blurt out "New York!" or "Florida!" or "Indiana!" as he saw the appropriate license plate. He was the only one playing.

Cameron was balancing a book on her knees. Wilson admittedly felt a small pang of jealousy; reading in the car made him nauseous.

Foreman was watching the gray brown trunks of trees passing quickly outside his window. He had a pair of headphones on to drown out Chase's music. Wilson wished he'd thought of that.

"Oregon, that's a long trip just for casinos. Although who knows what the hookers in Oregon are like; might be worth the drive," House said conversationally. Wilson didn't have the mental strength to answer. He felt like he had eaten an entire bottle of temazepam.

"What do you think hookers in Oregon wear, Wilson?" House bumped his shoulder against Wilson's. He hadn't moved his leg from its position pressing Wilson's. It had become a comforting, companionable presence after the shock dissipated.

Wilson bumped House's shoulder in retaliation. "The same lingerie they wear here?"

"I bet the sexy schoolgirl is popular up there. Or sexy fireman," House tipped his head, putting on a performance of thinking, "or sexy cop. Sexy teacher, sexy pilot," House met Wilson's eyes. "Sexy crossing guard."

Wilson laughed. "Crossing guard, really?"

"Seriously. I'm offended that you don't believe me." House frowned and overemphasized the action of crossing his arms. Wilson laughed harder, and House turned away to face the window.

"My middle school crossing guard. Hottest babe in the whole of New Jersey." House snuck a glance over his shoulder to make sure he had Wilson's attention and said, "the way she... told me when to cross... so I wasn't run over by a drunk driver..." House pretended to shiver.

Wilson was still chuckling, which turned to full blown, partially exhaustion born snorts when House affected a higher pitched voice to squeal, "Gregory! Get back here, I didn't say to cross yet! It would be easier—" he pretended to flick long hair out of his eyes, "if you could have some patience like the other children!"

"Can you two please stop giggling like twelve year old girls at their first slumber party?" Cameron interjected. "I've read the same sentence four times without remembering it."

"I second that," Chase said. "We're not even close to half way and I already want to jump out the window."

"At least we're making conversation, unlike you two. Not having sex anymore I take it?" House said. Cameron rolled her eyes and went back to her book. Chase scowled at House, opened his mouth, then closed it like he'd decided it wasn't even worth pursuing.

Wilson had to admit, House was good at shutting them up when he wanted to.

"Another Florida!" House yelled. Wilson's lips curved into a small smile. He nudged his leg against House's.

***

An hour had passed, or around that. Wilson had lost track.

No one had said anything in a long while. House had quieted from his preforming earlier, and sat staring at the headrest holding Foreman in front of him. He looked—not quite fully relaxed, Wilson thought, but less tense than normal. Wilson still had the company of House's leg next to his own. It was warm.

There was a sleepy, miasmatic air in the truck. Chase drove with one hand on the wheel; Cameron had given up her novel in favor of looking blankly out the window; Foreman was slumped down in his seat.

Wilson yawned. House looked over at him, eyebrows turned down.

"What?" Wilson murmured.

"Nothing," said House. He went back to staring at the headrest.

House's fingers were curled loosely around his palm, resting gently on his knee.

His knee, which was in contact with Wilson's.

House's hand was close enough for Wilson to see the lined callouses on his fingertips made by long years of guitar playing. The superficial palmar arch was just barely visible underneath House's skin, as well as the delicately curving digital veins and arteries. The blood vessels were lightly raised; they would feel ridged, most definitely.

Wilson looked out the windshield. They were in the middle of a kind of canyon; walls of rock held back in cages of metal wires surrounded the cracked road. Trees topped the sides of the fissure and cast dappled light into the truck.

A patch of light fell on House's nose, which made a warm feeling bloom in Wilson's chest. House's eyes closed, then opened slightly, then closed once more. The warm feeling expanded; Wilson felt like he might burst with it.

The canyon seemed to stretch on forever and ever. Even at fifty five, they kept passing through. Wilson felt his own eyes closing and opening as he tried to stay awake.

House was asleep now. His nostrils flared. Wilson thought about his brain controlling the flow of air in and out of his lungs.

_he looks so soft_

House's head was tipped back against the leather seat. Wilson was looking at House's stubbly cheek; his eyelids; his bent neck.

The truck turned a corner, and House's head tipped on to Wilson's shoulder. The crown of his head radiated body heat on to Wilson's cheek and deltoid muscle. He didn't feel shameful. This contact with House felt—good, right in a way Wilson didn't know how to express.

Wilson tucked his nose into the graying brown hair next to him, and closed his eyes.

***

"We need to talk about the giant, rainbow-patterned elephant in the room," Chase said, keeping his voice low so House and Wilson wouldn't wake. "Look at them."

Foreman and Cameron did. Chase saw them look at each other, then back at him. "Yeah," he said.

"It's—something, without a doubt," Cameron whispered. "You think it might be a, problem? I mean they both have had shitty luck with relationships."

"Not with theirs," Foreman said, turning his head to get a better viewing angle.

House's head was resting on Wilson's shoulder. He had—Chase looked in the rearview mirror again—a miniature smile on his lips. Wilson had his mouth open, just a little. Wilson's fingers were clasped around House's open palm.

"Their legs are touching all the way down to the ankle," Cameron supplied, softly.

"They do look peaceful," Chase said. He wasn't sure how to feel about this. On one hand, it made sense. They did spend a lot of time together, Chase knew. He'd heard them talk about movies and lunches and dinners. And monster trucks, quite frequently for two tax-paying adults. House stopped by Wilson's office as many times as he could when the team even suspected cancer in a patient. But he didn't know if House and Wilson would work out—and if they tried and couldn't, they would both be miserable.

"I know that look, Chase. You think we should help them along." Cameron said, and Chase thought she seemed a little annoyed at him. Probably because House was right about them not sleeping together at the moment.

"Is that a good idea? I think it would be better to let things happen on their own," said Foreman. "Do we know they want," he gestured at the back seats, "whatever that means?"

"They're as close as you can get to spooning in a car," Cameron said, "and Wilson is smelling House's hair."

"They've known each other a long time," Chase said, shrugging one shoulder. "Maybe they need a little help."

***


	2. Chapter 2

Wilson's eyelids felt as if they had been weighted shut. He was comfortably warm; it was dark. His foot, however, was throbbing in his tight black shoe. His back felt a lot better, but the cramped position in the car caused it to ache dully.

_shouldn't have kicked the metal_

Wilson's mouth and nose itched. As he became more aware of his surroundings, he ascertained that the itching was from the hair on House's head. 

Which Wilson was practically kissing. 

He pulled away with a start. His hand

 _I was holding his hand_

came away from House's grip, and a tiny gasp slipped out against his will. Chase, Foreman and Cameron heard the sound, and looked at Wilson. 

"You okay there?" Chase asked. The bastard wore an enigmatic little smile. 

"Just fine," Wilson said, a bit too brusquely. He swallowed and crossed his legs to avoid House's. He was still fast asleep, and his head was still settled on Wilson's shoulder.

Wilson caught Foreman and Cameron looking at each other and rapidly decided to think about the significance of that later. Or better yet, not at all. 

"How much longer?" he asked. If he acted like nothing happened maybe House's team would too. 

"Around two hours," Cameron said. 

"I thought you were going to drive?" 

"We decided that we didn't want to wake you," she said. She was smirking.

"We wanted you to get enough beauty sleep," Foreman put in. 

"...Okay..." Wilson replied. He was ninety percent sure he had waken up in the Twilight Zone. Soon Chase would take off a mask and reveal that he had been Rod Serling all along.

He had no idea what to say to puncture the balloon of unease and discomfort surrounding him. It would have been a hell of a lot easier if he hadn't been so mentally worn out from the—incident—last night.

If he hadn't stopped on that channel, he would have been well rested and he wouldn't have had to deal with the people he worked with shooting covert glances at each other and him when they thought he wasn't paying attention. He wouldn't have fallen asleep with his nose buried in his best friend's hair. His foot wouldn't be twinging in his shoe. Wilson would have been just fine without seeing thinly clad _male strippers_ on late night television.

And yet, in some dusty, used-as-little-as-possible alcove inside his brain, the thought that he had enjoyed it prevaded.

Wilson sighed. His—body had liked it, even if his head had been ringing alarm bells.

House made a snoring-grunting-sleeping sound and shuffled his head.

Wilson made the executive decision to ignore him and the team and stare out to the winding path of the road.

***

The longest forty five minutes of Wilson's life were passing at a snail's pace.

Darts of pain shot up his back each time he tried to move his legs, which were cramped from long sitting. He was sure his foot was swollen, and he wanted to unlace the shoe around it, but then Cameron would ask questions he didn't want to answer.

House was still sleeping on his shoulder. Wilson didn't dare move.

Chase was tapping his finger against the steering wheel. _tap. tap. tap. tap tap tap._ Wilson considered smacking his face on the armrest in front of him, but it probably wouldn't knock him unconscious and then he would have a headache on top of everything else.

Wilson became aware that he was grinding his teeth.

Chase asked, "Cameron, you want to drive now?" 

"Sure." 

*** 

The hotel room was not what Wilson had expected. 

The building itself had looked fine from the outside, with its clumps of purple and white flowers clinging to the bottoms of the walls and its spacious windows. The lobby of Wisteria Gardens had seemed normal too; people checking in and out, chic carpets, sporadically placed decorations made out of twisting pieces of wood. 

But this hotel room was nothing like that. 

There were long, dark colored stains on the carpeting in front of the door. The rest of the carpet looked dingy; it might've been a warm orange once upon a time. 

Wilson didn't want to face whatever he might find in either of the small beds yet. He creaked opened the little door that led to what he hoped was a bathroom. Inside, there was a large sink that looked relatively clean. It sat next to an incredibly short toilet. It was the smallest toilet Wilson had ever seen, but after an experimental flush that didn't result in water all over the floor, he decided it would do. 

Wilson turned around to the shower on the opposite wall, which had been white before the rust stains took over most of the flooring. Clouds of black-tinted blue mold were fused to a now dark gray shower curtain. 

"I am not touching that," Wilson muttered to himself. "I hope it's not Stachybotrys." 

Wilson shuddered and hurried out of the bathroom, shutting the door with a _snick_.

He sighed, hands on his hips as he continued to look around. Of course it would be like this.

The clock above the bed on the right read ten thirty, or ten forty. It was difficult to see the hands through glass frosted by a large spiderweb crack.

_maybe I'll ask for another room_

The worse of the beds was stained in the center with what might have been urine. The mark wasn't even under the covers. The other bed was less overtly marked; Wilson had almost sat on a splotch waiting under the bedspread. 

_I'm asking for another room_

*** 

"I'm sorry sir, but all the rooms are full. We don't normally have so many customers," the desk clerk turned her eyes to the floor. "I can't help you." 

"I understand," Wilson said, giving the woman a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I'll manage." 

"Could you, maybe, join one of your friends?" she asked, fiddling with her dark blonde hair. "I saw you come in with a group. The one with the cane seemed—" 

"Like an ass?" Wilson smirked. 

"I was going to use 'irritable'," she said, laughing a little. "He almost tripped you with that cane."

"Yeah," Wilson said, pursing his lips before continuing, "he thinks things like that are funny. I still have to get him back."

"Oh," she said, looking down again. "Well, I'm sorry again about the room. It was nice talking to someone so agreeable." She frowned.

Shit, she was trying to guilt him. Wilson pitied her, sitting at a desk all day, being yelled at by customers, going home alone, sitting in front of the TV late in the night until she fell asleep—

It was a bad idea to conjecture about her life. But she did have an air of loneliness about her; something that wanted to reach out and connect but couldn't.

"Thanks. I'll see you again at some point?"

"You— you will? When?" she asked, her blue eyes widening.

_well that's not what I meant_

"Ah, how about," Wilson checked his watch, stalling for time, "eight o'clock tomorrow?"

"Okay," she said, a soft smile gracing her features. This impromptu date wasn't a complete misfortune; the desk clerk _was_ pretty.

***

"House, I'm staying in your room," Wilson announced as he came through the door and plopped his bag of toiletries on the unoccupied bed. This room was better than his old one by leaps and bounds. There was no creeping mold, no mystery stains, clean light blue carpeting. House even had an outlet next to his bed.

"Afraid of a monster under your own bed?" House asked, not expecting an answer, laying the thin book he had been reading on his stomach. "Or maybe you just missed me."

"Yup, I absolutely couldn't bear to be separated from your charm for more than half an hour," Wilson replied loftily as he began taking the folded clothes he was planning to wear tomorrow out of his black suitcase.

House shrugged a shoulder. "What can I say, I'm irresistible. You should read this," he pointed at the book, "it's about this prostitute who goes undercover in the Congo—"

Wilson rolled his eyes and laughed. "You'll make up anything. I've read that before, and it doesn't have any prostitution, much less undercover missions in Africa."

House snorted and took his reading glasses off.

Wilson couldn't have put words to the feeling he experienced when the glasses were sitting on the nightstand and not on the bridge of House's nose. They left little indents in the skin below his eyes.

Wilson laid on the bed, crossing his legs and turning his eyes to the ceiling. It was a crisp, utilitarian white. Wilson's eyes may have been fastened upwards, but his mind wandered as soon as he allowed himself to slow for a moment. He imagined something dark and misty and far away. A castle, perhaps, or maybe it was a wall. Whatever it was, it was indomitable. Massive. No direction to go but backwards.

Invariably, everything Wilson did went backwards. He would have to tell a crying widow that her husband wasn't waking up or break the news of a child's death to the stone faced parents. There were successful cases, remissions, dazzling bright sparks that kept Wilson doing what he did. But more often than not cancer claimed its victims with little remorse, and when it did Wilson felt that he hadn't done enough. It wasn't just his professional life that regressed. It was expected, though still hard to deal with, in his line of work. 

Relationships always went south. It took a while, but they did without fail. Most of the time, he didn't instigate, and maybe that was the problem. Sam had been in his radiology rotation. At first, they were friends, bonded over shared interest in medicine. Sam had 'forgotten' to pick up her groceries one day, and invited Wilson along for the ride. He remembered asking her something about lettuce when she kissed him out of the blue, and that was that.

A year long failure of a marriage. It was enjoyable at first. Coming home and having someone to talk with, to eat dinner and watch meaningless TV with. The domesticities had been welcome, and Wilson cherished them.

But eventually Sam's feet on the coffee table and all of _her_ knickknacks around the house became unbearable when they had once been endearing. She was always there, suffocating him under the things she wanted. He said yes, nodded like a wax figurine, to every suggestion she made. Wilson hadn't wanted to make her unhappy by asking for anything he wanted, even if it was something unimportant.

The same thing happened with Bonnie. He had said, _we should just be friends_ and she agreed. And it was nice, being Bonnie's friend. She enjoyed ridiculous things like knitting while walking through town and taking trips to houses miles away that were up for sale; those ridiculous things were amusing in moderation. But another ridiculous thing happened when Bonnie told him one night, _I'm in love with you, I have been since we met_. Wilson had hesitated, citing his last marriage, but he couldn't help feeling that maybe this time it would be different, better.

It wasn't.

Wilson became a puppet again. Yes yes yes all day long. Lie after lie after lie, putting on a show of how happy he was so as not to hurt Bonnie. But Wilson found all the excuses he could to leave, going anywhere but home. Bonnie would ask if he was okay, genuinely concerned, and Wilson would paint a fake smile onto his face and make platitudes. They grew distant; Wilson grew closer to House. He didn't know Bonnie named the goddamn dog over how much time he spent with House until after the marriage had imploded.

It got to the point where Wilson didn't want to go home and neither did Bonnie. The farther she got, the more time he could spend away; at work, in bars, with House. House would tease him about cheating and he would laugh it off or get angry or change the subject and House would keep needling and once he admitted it. _I did, I cheated_ and House had looked a little smug. He felt guilty, like he'd been dipped in mud.

Julie had been nothing more than a distraction, and Wilson almost thought she knew it at some points. He needed an emotional outlet that wasn't House; the things he couldn't say threatened to overtake him and ruin everything. House wasn't—isn't—gay. Julie definitely knew what she was to Wilson the night House called him to say _Wilson, I need you_ and he had left without even knowing the reason. Julie cheated, and Wilson didn't blame her at all. They were better off divorced. He hated feeling like a stranger in front of the person he was supposed to love. Which is what happened in the end, every time he tried.

All of his relationships had ended in 'better off divorced'. Wilson went backwards, or maybe in circles. A dog chasing its tail over and over.

A thrill suddenly worked its way up Wilson's neck, like someone was barely tapping their fingers against his skin. The sensation was recognizable; House was watching him. Wilson slipped his attention toward his friend, watching from the safety of peripheral vision.

House wasn't staring, per se. He was observing, cataloging, glancing not-so-discreetly from the corner of his eye every few seconds.

Wilson was about to ask what House thought he was doing, but before he could form the words House had gone back to the book.

The best course of action was not reacting to House; it would just feed his ego. _Look what I can do!_ he'd say, _I can convince Wilson to hand me any amount of money if I look sad enough, and I can make him think about me all day long if I show interest in what he's doing! And the best part is, he enjoys it all, much more than he should._ Maybe House would wrinkle his nose then, disgusted as if something gelatinous was attached to the bottom of his sneaker. _You should see the things he winds up thinking about me. Wanting to touch me on the shoulder, the arm, the knee. Thinking about the texture of my stubble in his hands, or the way my hair would tickle his neck if we slept in one bed. Or the feeling of my cock against—_

"Wanna watch something?" House asked, interrupting the thoughts weaving and writhing in Wilson's skull. 

"Sure. Find something good, I'll be right back." 

He needed to— 

_Fuck!_

cut the thread his brain was spinning before it got out of control. From his failures in relationships to—

Shutting out the thought, he opened the door and hurried into the hallway, not looking back. Wilson stepped down a long, dark corridor at random. He was tempted to reach out and touch the wall as he went, like a fidgeting child on the first day of school. Wilson turned down another hallway, and another. He walked quickly past the closed doors on either side, not wanting anyone to see him avoiding the situation like a coward. If anyone did see him, they would wonder.

Wilson didn't want anyone to wonder. He simultaneously wanted his life to remain the way it was, comforting and familiar, and to change past the point of no return. Past the point of dinners, of lunches, of sitting in leather recliner seats facing the previews on the screen, hearing ads for cheaper popcorn and the next best film from another place. Wondering what would happen if he leaned in close or pretended a yawn and rested a hand on the back of the chair next to him.

_if if if_

Wilson could hear his footsteps, too loud. His breath pulling in and out, rabbit-quick. Fingernails biting half circles into his palms. Thinking what would happen if he went back, right now, threw open the door and grabbed House by the shoulders. He would say

_I don't think you want to watch a movie either_

something that explained it all. House would understand, nod, lean in and press their lips into one. They wouldn't have sex, not yet. This was special; going slowly would make it sweeter.

_what the hell am I thinking?! He's not gay and neither_

Wilson yanked open the sliding glass door he'd come upon, stumbling his way out into a patch of dilapidated, sun-baked grass. The area was walled in by other buildings, colored silver by the moon.

Masses of clouds drifted past, as if they were on a pleasant stroll down the beach. The moon reflected a halo on them as they passed. Stars were not wholly visible. One or two peeked from their undulating white blanket, but that was all. There was a shed in front of Wilson, constructed from dark wood turned light by the moon's radiance. There were probably tools in that shed, snowshovels, wheelbarrows, rakes. Wilson had never seen a groundskeeper here. Albeit his stay had been short, and it was obvious this hotel wasn't the best about the whole idea of housekeeping. 

He felt as if something skittering and panicked had started to leach from his muscles. Wilson sank down to sit cross legged, his eyes closing. He inhaled, counted to four, exhaled, excising the tension he had felt in the hotel's bowels. The air was cold. It felt nice. 

After a while, Wilson's back started to ache. His nose and ears were rapidly numbing from the cold. Inside seemed like the best option. He rose, stiffly and slowly, feeling a welcome sense of calmness. As he walked back to House's room, the peacefulness only grew stronger. 

***

"What took you so long? It's been almost half an hour! Any longer and I would have had to call 911 to report a very annoying, very absent person." House said, cane in hand.

"Sometimes a walk is nice," Wilson said, being enigmatic on purpose, knowing House would needle him no matter what he said.

"You know what else is nice? Snorting nose candy from a rolled up hundred dollar bill in an LA mansion. You know what you would have a hissy fit over?" House had set down his cane; Wilson noticed sneakers on House's feet that hadn't been there before he left. 

"Were you looking for me? Never knew you were so attached," Wilson examined his fingernails, attempting coyness and achieving sarcasm.

"Just got back. Of course you decided not to be found, like a fucking alley cat or a hooker than doesn't tell you her name is Crystal." House glowered. He sat carefully on the edge of one of the beds. He removed the shoe from his bad leg with a methodical tug, grunting in discomfort. 

"Your leg hurts," Wilson stated, his voice softer than before. 

"My my, what a genius we have in this room! Somebody call up NASA, I found their next rocket scientist!" 

"House, stop it. Anything I can do?" 

House put a hand under his chin, pretending he was lost in deep though. "Hm, I don't know, maybe don't run away in the middle of the night, forcing me to chase you." 

"For the record, I didn't 'force' you to do anything," Wilson said, flopping horizontally on the other side of the bed, stretching his back as he sank to the mattress. He almost said _I'm glad you want to chase me,_ but thought better of it. 

House had finally gotten both shoes off. He laid down, his bedraggled hair kitty corner to Wilson's. Wilson was close enough to hear House's breathing, sense the body heat from his face. If he moved a short distance, he would be touching House, face-to-face. They rested there a while, not speaking. Breathing. Thinking. Enjoying proximity.

"Did you pick a movie," Wilson asked minutes later, not quite whispering, speaking quietly so as not to fragment the easiness that had come over them, but feeling obligated to say something. 

"No," House said, with more gentleness than his usual inflection. "Nothing good on. Why did you go out walking at random in the middle of the night? You're obviously trying to punish yourself for something."

Wilson opened his mouth, reconsidered, and shut his teeth together with a click. House was scheming; the caring tone he'd adopted didn't bode favorably for Wilson. Wilson felt the urge to meet House's eyes, but to do that he would have to turn his head. 

House didn't say anything, didn't press the issue. That did nothing to stop Wilson's suspicion; it only increased the uncomfortable sensation that House knew something he shouldn't. 

Wilson waited, practically feeling his blood pressure rise to an abnormally high set of values. 

House stretched a little, as if he was searching for a casual course of action, then opened and closed his mouth. "Do you remember when I called you the other night," he asked. 

_god_ damn _it_

"... you call me on quite a few nights..." Wilson lingered over the syllables.

"The specific night where you didn't answer, and when you finally did it sounded an _awful_ lot like you were bawling your little brown eyes out?" House was speaking gently, even though his phrasing left complete empathy to be desired. 

Wilson didn't answer. 

"What was that about?" 

Wilson kept his mouth shut. House could not know, under any circumstances. Unfortunately hindsight offers the best vision; Wilson came to the realization that he should've at least tried to lie without the all too telling hesitation. 

"I want to know," House said. He shuffled his position on the bed. 

"You always want to know," Wilson muttered, bitter. He crossed his arms, shielding himself. 

"I do. Tell me." House was sincere; 

_at least for now_

he acted genuinely concerned. Maybe he was concerned and maybe he wasn't. Either way, he couldn't know. 

"No." 

"Oh come on, you ruin all my fun." He bumped his shoulder into Wilson. "I won't tell anyone, Scout's honest to God honor." 

"No." 

"It's obviously something embarrassing, very embarrassing, considering your vehemence that I can't know," House was beginning to sound irritated. Always the child, upset about not getting his turn at the swing set. "Now what would you be doing alone, at night in your hotel room that I interrupted..." 

"I wasn't masturbating, and I'm not telling you." Not at any cost. It wasn't worth— what would happen after. What that might be, Wilson was afraid to know. If House knew, Wilson's life would be divided into Before You Knew I Like Men, at Least a Little, and After. He'd never live it down.

"Well, you were breathing heavily. I hope you don't cry when you masturbate. That's pitiful, Wilson." House moved his head to meet Wilson's eyes. They weren't quite touching. Wilson darted a glance then looked away. "Oh my god, you've done that before? Must suck to be you." 

With a sharp exhale, Wilson bit out, "Yep," popping the _p_. 

A moment passed. Wilson could practically see the gears turning in House's head. Steam would starting funneling from his ears any second now. "Honestly. Are you okay?" House dropped the partially jocular, partially petulant child demeanor, meeting Wilson's eyes again. 

"Yeah," Wilson said, quietly. Only lying a little. "I know you'll probably completely disregard this, but can we not talk about this any more? And," Wilson stressed, "can you leave this conversation between us? Please?" 

House huffed but agreed. "Only because I like you." 

***

Wilson runs his hands through the sand. It sweeps past his fingertips; he can feel every grain. He turns his face to the sky. Dark bands of clouds lie underneath lighter gray, making a pattern of light-dark-light. They remind Wilson of a ribcage. 

Wilson doesn't know where he is, but doesn't care. It doesn't matter. 

His eyes close and when he opens them he is met with darkness. The sensation of holding out a hand overtakes him. He moves the fingers, clenches them. 

All is black. 

He reaches forward and grasps empty air. Cold, void, blank. 

Wilson staggers to his feet, instinctively ducking his shoulders so as not to bump them into a ceiling he doesn't know exists. He takes a cautious shuffling step forward, another and another. Wilson stands to his full height; something stiff scrapes against his head. He swears _(Fuck!)_ and leaps away. 

The stalactite is jagged. He dips his pointer finger into a divot in the rock. It's smooth, almost delicatly soft. Wilson plunges his other digits into other indents in the calcium deposit. He pulls, once, twice. The stalactite cracks from its moorings above. 

Wilson holds it in his hand. He tastes dust and grass hay. 

_What are you doing in here?_ a voice says, emanating from the blackness. Wilson says he doesn't know. 

Wilson hears House's uneven step echoing on the wet floor. House raps his cane against Wilson's shins and Wilson yells 

_fuck was that for?!_

and House covers Wilson's cheeks with a palm on either side. His nose nudges Wilson's. Wilson doesn't breathe, doesn't move, doesn't do anything at all. 

House's forehead meets Wilson's. Wilson smells House's coffee-tainted breath. Coffee, and something else, an unnameable sweet scent. 

All is still dark. 

Wilson is aware of the warmth given off by House's body. He reaches out, finds fabric, finds House. 

House kisses him. His mouth is on Wilson's mouth and Wilson closes his eyes and isn't brave enough to say the words that want to choke their way from his throat.

Their chins are touching; the stubble on House's face itches. House runs his hand through Wilson's hair, moves his lips a little. 

Wilson opens his eyes and gasps, leaving House's mouth without meaning to. Pearlescent beads of bioluminescence depend from clustered strands on the roof of the cave. _Glow worms_ , House says. His voice is quiet. _Hunting_ , says Wilson, then _they look like tears_. 

House turns from his wide eyed admiration of the glow worms to Wilson. His face glows a faint blue green. Wilson takes his hands— one in each of his own. The callouses greet him. House's eyes are stained aqua; they do not break contact. House opens his mouth and whispers _I lo—_

*** 

Blue eyes. Blue eyes, close to his own, looming over him from where Wilson lay on his hotel bed. He was glad that he switched rooms. This bed was actually very comfortable. 

"You were smiling. Sexy dream about that desk clerk?" House cocked his head. 

"Something like that," Wilson said, unable to meet House's eyes. He was unavoidably aware of the suspicious blush on his cheeks. He vaguely remembered dreams of sandy beaches, as well as pitch-darkness. And House. Those parts were vivid, technicolor. A span of seconds passed; bewildered and confused seconds, although not for the reasons House assumed. "How do you know about the desk clerk?" 

House waved a hand, aiming for nonchalance, and said, "I saw her drooling at your feet last night before you came up here. Then you said something about," he formed his fingers into air quotes, " 'wanting to see her again sometime' then setting up a cute little date. Neither of you said where, though. Maybe a bathroom stall? Never a better place for a quick handjob, or even—" 

Wilson sat up. House had no right to poke around in personal business. That had never stopped him before, and yet one could dream. If he was honest, he'd admit that he didn't really mind. 

"First of all," Wilson held up his index finger, creating a list as he went, "did you follow me? How did you get here before me? You were reading when I got here last night." 

"Don't give me that look. The 'I'm suspicious of your actions' look. Raising your eyebrows to pretend that you're confused doesn't help."

Caught out, Wilson quickly furrowed his brow. "You were following me, weren't you. Can't I have ten minutes of peace?"

"Nope!" House said brightly.

With a resigned hand over his eyes, Wilson said, "I—okay. I don't—never mind. Not even worth arguing." He dragged the hand down his face. "Second of all, why do you care so deeply about my sex life? And third, I would rather have my eyes poked out of my head with a fork than _use_ the bathrooms here, much less get a handjob in one." 

"Mr. Hoity Toity, 'I Am to Good for Bathroom Sexual Activity' Wilson. You," House paused, nose in the air, "disgust me." 

"Not as much as you disgust yourself." Wilson raised his eyebrows again, half-teasing, mostly knowing he was jabbing at House for almost figuring out the one thing he never could last night. 

"I don't disgust myself for the same reasons you do," House replied. The light barb didn't seem to faze him; in fact he looked almost excited from where he stood in his rumpled graphic tee. It was white, with a large openmouthed bass flying through the air after a lure. Blue cursive near the bottom told Wilson to **_Go Fishing!_**

 _how does he know about_

"I'm not a self-righteous—delinquent—like you." Wilson knew that was a stupid and ineffectual thing to say, but he was not continuing the current line of questioning. It was much too close to home.

"You're only a delinquent if you're fourteen, which I'm not. Now I would be considered an asshole, unless I get caught breaking a law. That would make me an asshole turned hoodlum." House had bent to his knees, attempting and failing to hide a grimace from Wilson. Crouching on the hotel carpet, resting on his elbows, he asked, "you seen my cane anywhere?" 

"Asshole turned hoodlum. I'm going to call you that from now on. And I know you enough to believe that phrase really came out of your mouth." Mentioning House's pain would irritate him, and if he was irritated, Wilson would have to endure more questioning. "Your cane's on the doorknob, where you left it."

Cane in hand, House swung the bathroom door shut. Thanking God for the privacy, Wilson raked his hands over his face. A choked exhale escaped as the shower turned on in the bathroom. How the hell did House know exactly where to prod? Did he suspect anything, or was he stabbing the needle at random and observing what fluid he could find? 

Bubbles of anxiety formed in Wilson's chest, growing with each second that passed. If House did know, if he had slipped up in some way he hadn't realized... allowed a gaze to cleave together for just longer than necessary, blustered his way through the wrong answer, called in the pink lit hours of the morning one time too many.

But there was no way House could suspect anything. Wilson had kept a tight hold on the key to this particular cage.

It was surprising that House had gotten up so early, early enough to beat Wilson to the shower and pester him in the process. He had slept in more than he had wanted to. 

Wilson got up with a stretch and checked his watch. The conference was in forty— no, forty three minutes. Enough time, if he hurried. 

He trudged to the bathroom and knocked on the door. "Are you decent?" 

"Never," House's voice responded, muffled by the shower water and the closed door. 

Wilson opened the door. A cloud of warm steam greeted him. He swung the door shut, and began the search for his toothbrush. It wasn't on the sink, where he had left it when unpacking, nor was it in the hotel's mostly empty medicine cabinet. The glass was completely fogged over already; Wilson wiped the steam away with his palm. 

"Are you trying to cook yourself in there?" he asked, opening the drawers under the sink. House didn't answer. His toothbrush wasn't in any of the drawers. At a loss, he inspected the top of the medicine cabinet; no dice. House probably put it in the toilet. 

"Looking for something?" House said. Wilson could _hear_ his smug smile. 

"Give it back. We have to leave in," he peered at his watch again, "thirty seven minutes." 

"That's plenty of time, enough to watch an episode of Desperate Housewives. If you really want your toothbrush, come and get it." 

"House," Wilson said with exasperation, "what did you do with it." 

"It's my hostage! Come and pay the ransom!" 

"I can't believe you," said Wilson, placing his hands on his hips. "Can't you just, I don't know, hand it to me?" 

House stuck out a dripping arm and dangled the toothbrush in the air. He pulled away before Wilson could snatch it.

"Really?" At this point, stalling was the best option. 

"Uhyup," said House, imitating the stereotypical backcountry farmer. "C'mon an' get 'er." 

Wilson sighed, deep in his lungs. But he really did need that toothbrush. He jerked open the shower curtain and held out his hand, carefully avoiding the sight of House without clothes in front of him. Of all the things House made him do... 

"I said 'get 'er'." House still held the toothbrush, though Wilson wasn't looking to see his face. 

"I swear to God, one of these days I will kill you," Wilson said, his eyes quickly darting to House and back. He grabbed at the toothbrush, but House forced his arm away before Wilson could reach. House put his arm above his head and tutted. To get the toothbrush, Wilson would have to either climb in the shower 

_not happening_

or lean in, very close to House. Wilson stood immobile a moment; he decided to reach in the shower before things got out of hand in any way. 

House knew what he was doing, Wilson was sure. House's breath and the warmth from the steam touched his cheek for a brief moment that seemed much longer. He backed away as soon as House had relinquished the toothbrush. House let his arms drop to his sides; he aimed a raised eyebrow at Wilson, who forcibly realized that his eyes had started to wander. 

Wilson snapped back to reality from long lines of wet skin with a jump away from the shower. "I—," he started. He couldn't go on; it was as if his vocal chords had decided that they needed the rest of the day off, thankyouverymuch. 

House tipped his head, staring at Wilson. He was standing strategically so Wilson wasn't able to see his bad leg. House looked down; Wilson followed the movement of his eyes downwards.

Wilson stared bug-eyed and immobile; a deer stunned by headlights. Ten very long seconds crept by, sneaky little things. Wilson came to his senses and left the bathroom in a rush of movement.

The toothbrush that had started the whole debacle lay forgotten on the floor.

***

Wilson scrambled out of the front seat of Chase's truck, aware that he was acting like a damn fool. A damn noticeable fool; no doubt the fellows had shared a meaningful look behind his back already. Foreman had given up his previous seat with little resistance, thank fuck. Wilson thought he might actually light on fire if he got within speaking distance of House. 

He forced himself to walk across the wide parking lot at a casual pace, coerced his feet into waking in line with Cameron. 

"This is a huge parking lot," Chase said, wonder in his voice, from somewhere behind Wilson. 

"Wow, thank you for describing what we can all see! I thought my eyes must have been plucked out by a bird and I just didn't notice." 

"What's _your_ problem?" Cameron asked, turning around to look at House. Wilson wondered the same thing; House sounded like he would bite if anyone got too close. Apparently messing around with his best friend's main insecurity had lost its entertainment value. House didn't answer, but Wilson thought he heard the rattle of a pill bottle. He glanced back briefly, worried in spite of himself, and offered Cameron a perplexed shrug.

They bridged the parking lot, weaving through parked cars. The conference itself was held in the sprawling industrial monster of a building looming in front of them. Wilson felt smaller and smaller as the building crept closer. 

As they approached the row of turnstiles, full of people in lab coats trickling through seven at a time, a young man hurried to approach them. He held a clipboard in one hand and a pen in the other. The nametag pinned on his upper pectoral read HI, MY NAME IS JASON. 'Jason' was written in neat cursive. 

Uncapping the pen, Jason welcomed them to the conference. He claimed they would have a "super fun and informative experience"; Wilson wanted to roll his eyes. He caught House completing the action. His gaze stuck a moment; Wilson could see House dart back and forth across his face before he gave up contact.

Wilson pushed away through a turnstile. 

***

Following Cameron had been the best choice, no doubt. Wilson sat in a moderately comfortable green-fabriced chair, his vision tentatively on the doctor presenting. She was gesturing to a colored bar graph on the board. He caught words and phrases at random, when his brain surfaced from the fog as if to get a breath of air. The fog was the usual tee shirt wearing, cane bearing, prescription swiping someone.

_did he want me to see?_

Cameron was bent forward, scribbling in a spiral notebook. The presenter was saying something about damage to the parietal lobe. Wilson wondered vaguely what Cameron was writing; surely brain damage would be considered too common for House's tastes unless there was an interesting abnormality in the patient. 

_he must have he wanted me to reach into the shower but_

A sigh erupted from somewhere in front of Wilson. He scanned the crowd, drawn to the noise. A blonde head caught his eye. The desk clerk? She wasn't in the medical profession, as far as he knew. She turned around, presumably to take a peek at the wall clock suspended opposite the presenter. She made eye contact with Wilson. 

_he's going to mess with me now that he knows he found something_

Her face brightened considerably upon seeing him. Wilson waved, shortly, aware that his own visage hadn't changed. He forced a smile and hoped it was convincing. He felt a little guilty, just then. He didn't even know what the desk clerk's name was. To top it off, she was much happier to see Wilson that he was to see her. 

_maybe if I act like it didn't matter_

The desk clerk winked. Wilson wanted to exhale, but he didn't want the desk clerk to hear. He wasn't a complete jerk; he would at least act pleased to see her. 

She eventually wheeled back around, after making eye contact too long to be purely friendly. Wilson returned to watching the presenter point at a different graph. This one was labeled GERSTMANN'S SYNDROME IN THE LEFT LOBE. 

. The presenter said something about the somatosensory cortex, making a few people around Wilson chuckle. The joke had completely sidestepped his attention. 

The presenter bowed, and the audience began clapping. Wilson followed suit. When the cacophony had died down, he got up and headed for the door marked EXIT in maraschino cherry fluorescents. 

"So, eight tonight?" a voice asked. The desk clerk was leaning by the doorframe. "What should I be preparing myself for?"

The statement had an ominous ring to it, although the clerk didn't seem to notice. Wilson forced a smile. "Something fun."

"No more specific than that?" She grinned. "I realized that we didn't exchange any personal information yesterday. I'm Giselle." 

Wilson shook the hand she offered, his false smile giving way to a real one. "I'm James. Although my friends tend to call me Wilson." 

"Well in that case, call me Adams."

Wilson leaned against the doorframe itself. He made sure not to block the exit. "Well miss Adams, where should we meet later?" 

"I was thinking somewhere near the hotel, since we're both around already? It would be easiest." 

"Sure, I'll see you then." He paralleled Giselle's earlier wink. The image of House staring at him, bits of hay caught in his gently graying hair, popped inexorably to mind. He exited the room with the fleeting thought _I have to get him back_ tingling in his brain.

***

"We were right in the car," Cameron said as she set down her lunch and sat down. "House and Wilson. Wilson, especially. He's been following me this whole time like a lost puppy to avoid House." 

"And he was practically jumping out of his skin this morning." Chase mumbled around a mouth full of cheap, cafeteria provided salad. 

"And," Foreman clasped his fingers together, "he didn't want to sit next to House on the way in. When was the last time that happened?" 

Cameron poked her salad. It really was a dissapointment. "Something must have happened, something to make Wilson uncomfortable." 

"House did something, you're saying. Something sexual." 

"Well that could be anything, knowing House." Thank god Chase had swallowed. 

"What are we going to do about it?" 

Foreman said "Nothing," at the same time that Chase began theorizing. 

"If you think back, House makes ambiguous jokes all the time. He's probably hinting about secretly wanting Wilson's tongue down his throat." Chase evidently thought this was funny; Cameron wanted to roll her eyes. 

"We shouldn't do anything, their love lives are _not_ our business." 

"That might be true, but I can't take Wilson stuck to my side any longer than necessary. Whenever we go in to see a speaker he stares into the distance and sighs the whole time." 

Chase took another bite of his salad, chewing it while he thought. "We should lock them into a room with one bed and not let them out til they've had sex." 

Foreman and Cameron both glared at him. "You have no subtlety, Chase," Cameron said.

He shrugged. "Hey, it would probably work. Just saying." 

"Are you sure that there's even attraction between them? They are good friends, maybe we just... misconstrued things." Foreman said. "If you two do get into this, make sure it works. I can't handle House creating any more havoc than usual." 

Chase started. "Do normal friends get jealous of each other's girlfriends? Or wives?"

"Do they name the dog Hector as an anagram for a certain wife's jealousy of a certain someone?"

"Do normal friends read love letters written by a horny old woman with syphilis out loud in a dramatic voice?"

"Do they try and get each other laid?"

"Do they worry when one does something a little out of the ordinary, like yawning, and then spend hours obsessing over what could be wrong?"

"Do they lend money, possessions, and time? Do they keep coming back to each other over and over? Do they—"

"Okay, okay, I get the point—"

"Wait, there's more, does a certain limping someone secretly fear being alone if another certain someone leaves for good? And does that same limping someone always rely on—"

Cameron smiled. "We pay more attention that you do. That's still not even all of it."

Foreman shook his head in defeat. "Okay. So they're in love. What are we gonna do about it?"

***

House sat himself in the seat next to Wilson. Wilson said nothing, only glared at him briefly then focused on the center of the room. House rolled his eyes and faced the center of the auditorium as well, where the fellows were fumbling around with cardboard boxes of various sizes. 

"Any idea what they have in those?" 

Wilson didn't answer, only crossed his legs and remained resolutely forward. 

"No? And the silent treatment to boot? Lucky me," House scowled. "I didn't want you jabbering in my ear for this whole presentation anyway."

People started to fill in the mostly empty auditorium, in twos and threes. House watched them as they passed, no doubt trying to pick apart anything interesting their outward appearance said about their medical records. He sighed, a lengthy, gusty exhalation of air. 

An older woman sat a few seats in front of Wilson and opened a black leather bag she had placed on the concrete flooring. She rummaged around, clunking the contents of the bag, not finding what she was looking for. After a spout of muttering and irritated foot shuffling from House (Wilson was genuinely surprised he didn't make a loud smartass comment) the woman pulled a pen from the bag. She clicked the pen, head tilted as if thinking, then went back to combing through the bag. 

"Goddamn bottomless bag over there is making me regret this conference more and more every second. We could be home right now, eating lunch with vegetative state guy." 

A small smirk worked its way through Wilson's cross exterior, though he quashed it as soon as he could. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw House lean back and cross his hands behind his head, exuding the saying 'the cat that got the cream'. Bastard.

"Where do you want to go to lunch next? I feel like we haven't gotten Mexican since Chase finally learned the right vein for blood draws." House was looking at him now, elbows almost bumping into his head. 

With a low, grudging tone that hopefully masked the swoop of happiness he felt, Wilson broke down and answered. 

"Fine, Mexican it is, as soon as we get out of this hellhole." The woman stopped clattering through the bag. Finally. 

The fellows had set up a computer monitor, and were pulling knots of electrode cables out of one of the boxes.

"Can't stay mad at me for long, can you?" 

"Shut up." 

"Can't handle my enormous penis?" 

"It's not that big. Now please shut up."

The team's speech, once they got going with the EEG, was actually interesting; a surprise to Wilson. He was listening though perhaps not as intently as he should have been. House kept squirming around, like a dog with a serious flea infestation.

"What is your problem?" he hissed, trying not to interrupt anyone else's enjoyment of the deluge of information pouring from center stage. There were few empty seats in the room.

"This is the most mind numbing thing I've ever been forced to experience." And with that, House got up, grabbed his cane, and left the room. 

Wilson stared after him a moment, and shrugged. If House wanted to leave nothing was stopping him. He turned forward and devoted his attention to Foreman, who was talking into the microphone. 

The door opened with a _whoosh_ from the back of the room. Shaking paper and plastic was quite loud; a few heads turned to look at House, toting an opened bag of microwave popcorn. He had been gone—Wilson checked his watch— about ten minutes. 

House acted like the bag would light on fire if he didn't aggressively shake it and make as much noise as possible. He walked back to his seat slowly, obviously savoring the annoyed looks various audience members shot his way as he weaved in and out isle to isle. 

When House finally landed, he gave the bag a final cursory rustle then shoved his hand in. 

"You do know that your team is trying to give a speech?" Wilson said, knowing House didn't care. He held out his hand. 

House smiled as if to say he was very well aware and placed a single kernel on the center of Wilson's palm.

"Hey!"

Wilson muffled his giggles by covering his mouth. House was rubbing his forehead with narrowed eyes. He reached into the bag again. 

"That was for earlier in the bathroom. I really rather wouldn't want to see your naked body again." His tone was flippant. 

"I'm not so sure about that." House tossed a piece of popcorn into Wilson's open mouth.

After eating the popcorn, Wilson said "look House, I know you think you're the proverbial all that and a bag of chips, but trust me, once was enough." But if he was honest, once wasn't enough. He wanted to hold House, in the dark and under a thick woolen blanket, until they drifted off. He wanted to touch his hands, his mouth. He wanted to live in the same house, share the TV with feet on the coffee table, argue over the best place to put the milk in the refrigerator.

Wilson wanted to be sure— he wanted to know, to stop dancing around and to be sure. And yet, he kept deflecting; choosing the safer path, the road traveled over and over again. If House was only messing with him and he made a move, nothing could ever be the same again. There would be no more movies or dinners or bars or finding House in his office at random points in the workday. The risk of losing everything was too great.

House beaned another piece of popcorn towards Wilson. This one struck him on the nose. "I'm all that and two bags of chips, thank you."

"You wish. But we both know that I'm all that and _three_ bags of chips." Teasing banter was the best option. Then House wouldn't be able to pick up on the excited, sweetly sick nervousness beginning to build in Wilson's stomach. They were heading into deeper waters. "Plus, my dick's bigger than yours."

"No one, except Mrs. I Have My Whole Life in This Bag over here," he gestured to the older woman, "could stomach that much fake superiority. You're so cute when you snark."

Butterflies aside, Wilson cocked his head and replied, "so you actually like when I yell at you for doing stupid things? And then you do them anyway and I tell you 'see, that was a bad idea', rinse and repeat."

"Helps me know you care. Even if I never listen."

"You have listened to reason before, you just don't want to admit it."

"And you," House tossed another popped kernel, "enjoy giving your advice. We're evenly matched."

"I guess we are."

"Can you and your little boyfriend please shut the hell up?" The irate demand, directed at Wilson, came from the bearded man sitting a seat away from him.

Wilson opened his mouth with the intent to respond, but House beat him to it.

"Can you and your bald head shut the hell up?" House looked about two seconds away from hitting the man in the head with his cane.

It took a little longer than that.

"Some people," the man growled, "are trying to listen."

"Well some people can go shove this cane up their ass!" House brandished the cane, handle pointed at the man. The man grew red in the face, a very unattractive purpled beet color.

Wilson put his hand over House's arm and slowly pushed the cane down. "House."

"Wilson," House said.

The man scowled from his seat, still red. "You— you disgusting little—" Wilson realized his hand was still laying over House's arm. He snatched it back.

"We're not—"

House was pissed. Angrier than Wilson had seen him in a long time.

"Fuck off, what other people do isn't your damn business." House was shaking a little. His face was closed off and his voice came out low and charred.

"It is when you queers are all over each other in public." The man spoke quietly, darkly. "I don't want to see it, I won't have it."

House smiled. Wilson was then very worried. "You don't want to see it? You don't want to _see it?_ " House got louder with every word. People in the audience started to peer at the spectacle going on around them. The fellows noticed; Chase spoke much more slowly, his attention focusing on the middle of the rows.

House lunged forward, grabbed Wilson's tie, and flew out of his seat, pulling Wilson with him. He looped a hand up the nape of Wilson's neck, into his hair, and shoved him forward.

"Mmpph!" said Wilson. His brain had completely gone offline. He was vaguely aware of his own hands flopping around like beached fish, then the kiss was over.

He stared at House, dumb. "Could've at least taken me to dinner first," he coughed out, still stricken by the whole situation.

House's fists were clenched, his eyes gouging into the man's face. Wilson blinked and looked around the now silent auditorium.

_you could hear a pin drop in here_

Somewhere in the front rows, someone started clapping. The solitary sound was joined by more clapping, hesitant at first. The sound was made louder by more and more people. In seconds the clamour of people clapping and whistling filled the room, reverberated against the walls.

The man jolted upright and charged at House, his face now fully purple and his eyebrows drawn far enough down to brush his eyes. Wilson was broken of his mini-coma by a hot tide of rage born from his need to keep this man from touching House. He dove forward and tightened his arms around the man's midsection when they collided with an _oomph_. Wilson felt blood beating in his temples. House brushed past his shoulder from his position on top of the man, holding down his attempts to get away.

"Fucking queers!" the man screamed. House said nothing but swung his cane like an axe into the man's forehead. The man screamed, this time in pain. The clapping died out; someone yelled something but Wilson didn't hear what it was. He grabbed House's hand and yanked him out of the auditorium as fast as House could go.

***

"No, officer, I don't know who it was." Foreman said. "It all happened in the span of five minutes."

"You were speaking at the time? All three of you?" The police officer said, prepared to write on a slim notepad.

Chase and Cameron nodded while Foreman said, "from our understanding, the... victim... was insulting the man who hit him."

The officer nodded and motioned for him to continue.

"The man who hit him did it with what looked like a bat," Chase lied. "I hopped off the stage as soon as the man ran out and we checked out the victim."

"He was fine, other than the bruise he'll have," Cameron said. Foreman wished House had given him a concussion, but then he would be in more trouble.

After a few more questions the officer thanked them, leaned back in his chair and said they could go.

Outside the police station, cold air nipping his lungs, Foreman said "they're lucky no one at the conference besides us knows who they are."

"Yeah. And that it all happened so quietly. Until the end."

"Off Scott-free, with any luck, unless the bastard who insulted them can describe them enough," Chase said. "He did kind of deserve it, though. I'm sure House is happy they can't go back to the conference."

"On another note," Foreman said as he slid into Chase's truck, "House and Wilson kissed in front of a roomful of people."

Cameron smiled. "We might not have to do anything after all."

***

"You look nice." Giselle was sat at one of the circular tables, a ways away from the resturant's enterance. 

"Thank you, so do you." He already felt out of place. He couldn't stop thinking about— earlier. 

She gave a constrained smile and looked down at the empty white plate laid on the tabletop. Great, even his date could pick up on his awkwardness. 

Wilson pulled out his chair and sat down, facing the main door. He hid behind the unfolded menu and took a deep breath. Dating was supposed to be easy; fun, even. This one would turn out well. Even if Wilson had to force it a touch at the beginning. 

"So," he put the menu down without deciding what he wanted, "what do you do for a living?" 

"I work at the hotel." Giselle narrowed her eyes. "You know that." She gave him a plaintive look. 

"I meant what do you want to do, I guess." Wilson shrugged, fiddled with the menu again. "You were at the medical conference, are you interested in medicine?" Damn it, the conference, House kissing him and—

She smiled; her expression opened like a window thrown up to catch a springtime breeze. "I am, actually. I always wanted to be a pharmacist, but I never... got around to it. Going to a medical conference was my way to live vicariously. What about you, what do you want to do with your limited existence on this planet we call Earth?" 

"I'd like to be happy. Or," he swept a hand through the air, "go and explore the vast expanse of nothing we call space." 

"That would be neat, I agree." She smiled again, happy that Wilson was picking up and reciprocating her sense of humor. "Did you hear about the fight? Some guy hit another guy with a cane or something. And I've heard rumors that the other guy the cane guy was with made out with him in front of a whole auditorium."

Wilson shifted and squeaked out, "nope, hadn't heard. What a crazy, thing, to happen."

"Ooh, here comes the waiter," Giselle said, and Wilson could have cried in relief. 

***

After a prolonged period of meaningless chatter and copious wine consumption, Wilson felt at fully at ease for the first time since he'd sat down. Alcohol was a wonderful depressant. He even forgot about House kissing him for a bit. 

"Do you know why I," Giselle leaned in, as someone with a secret to tell does, "went on this date with you?"

Wilson shrugged in an extravagant motion produced by alcohol, palms up. Tiredness loomed; if he put his head on the table, he would probably drift off. 

"Because I needed someone to bring for my family reunion. Someone male." 

Wilson blinked, not understanding. 

"I don't want to bring who I would bring if I hadn't told them yet." Giselle was slurring her words, just a little, as if they had fallen into a vat of molasses just before they stumbled free of her mouth. 

"You—," 

"I wanted to ask Sarah, she works in the kitchen and she's got the prettiest eyes..." Giselle trailed off, going somewhere else for a moment. 

"Why don't you," Wilson stated rather than asked. "If you want to have her as your date then ask 'er." He yawned. 

"I haven't told any of my family though. They don't know I'm—" 

"Not as straight as they think?" Wilson cracked a drunken smile. 

"Yeah. Yeah, they don't expect it." She looked down and away, frowning slightly. 

"I'll tell you a secret Giselle. I'm in love with my best friend. I have been for," he looked up, trying and failing to make his intoxicated brain tally a number, "a, a while. But I just figured it out, like, a month ago?" 

Giselle nodded gravely. "The one you're sharing the room with?" 

"Yes ma'am. You know, you should date who you wanna date, fuck your family." 

She smiled. "I think I'm in love with Sarah. Maybe I'll, maybe I'll ask her. Can't hurt to try." 

"But what if she rejects you? What if she doesn't feel the way you do and then you ruin your friendship? And anything that makes you think maybe it could work is just for shits 'n' giggles because h-she likes to mess with you? And then you can't even love him from afar?" 

"That's a risk I'm willing to take. Geronimo-jump-off the meta, meta, metaphorical cliff and hope she catches me. I think she will, fuck my family. And I think yours would catch you no matter what."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 37 minutes isn't enough time to watch an episode of Desperate Housewives; I checked.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drinking and miscommunication: a recipe for unfortunate events.

The car ride to the hole in the wall restaurant had been rough. He'd almost thrown up in House's lap (Foreman had refused to give up his seat this time) when Chase swerved around a bend. The chatter in the car had been much too loud for his aching head. 

Thankfully, the restaurant was bare-bones and mostly empty except for the sullen teenage boy that waved them to a booth with a lackadaisical hand. A grandmotherly woman was passing a fork to a tow-headed toddler on the other side of the room. 

"I'm just gonna—" the world spiraled before Wilson's eyes into woozy blurs of color. "Go to the bathroom. I'll be right back."

He steadied his head on a stall door, waiting either to be sick or for everything to stop spinning, whichever came first. He could hear music, a song he didn't know, playing faintly from somewhere in the restaurant's interior.

Arriving at the table gave him pause. Cameron started to get up but House grabbed her sleeve. He patted the tiled table across from him, sticking his lower lip out in a pout. Wilson fondly rolled his eyes and immediately regretted how dizzy it made him.

Foreman and Chase slid out of their booth; Chase muttered something under his breath but Wilson didn't catch it. He sat down, across from House, in the perfect position for House to scrutinize him. 

"So either you slept with her and it sucked or you didn't at all. I'm going to bet—" House bobbled his head side to side, showing Wilson he already knew the answer, "not at all." 

"You only know that because I came back earlier than I said I would. And the hangover." 

"You don't have that warm, red blooded glow, the one you get after a full night of doggy style." 

Another teenage boy, different from the one that seated them, approached the table, toting badly laminated menus and an alarmingly fake smile. Wilson showed pity for the boy’s unfortunate ears by giving House the best ‘I can barely believe you said that here you dumbass’ face he could muster.

"I'll be back when you've decided on drinks," the boy said, "anyone need anything in the mean time?" 

”Got any bananas? Carrots?” House piped up.

“House, for God’s sake, shut up,” Wilson said. He tried for angry but reached a point around amused and embarrassed.

***

The sullen faced boy delivered the drinks, setting them all on the far edge of the table and rolling his eyes as he slunk off. House leaned over and crushed Cameron with his body despite her protests ("House, what are you doing? Get off me!"). 

"Here," he said, handing Wilson the glass of water he'd ordered. 

"Thanks. Don't expect any favors." Wilson looked at the table 

_bathroom tile?_

instead of at House when their fingers knocked together, slopping water onto the table. House's fingers were cold. Wilson held the glass to avoid reaching out and taking them with his own.

The fellows had noticed, Wilson knew; they were all studying their menus with greater intensity than they did clinic patients. Wilson shuffled his feet and broke the silence.

"I feel more awful than I ever have before," Wilson said. It was an exaggeration, but he needed something to say. His head _was_ still swimming and aching all at the same time.

"You look worse," House said.

Wilson glared at him a second time. “You’re really enjoying pushing it today, aren’t you.”

House winked and Wilson wanted to sink into the floorboards so the fellows would stop blatantly not looking at them.

"What would everyone like?" asked the boy who'd brought the menus as he sidled up to the table. He had a large smile stretching over blunt teeth, but none of the joy expected with such a smile made the way to his eyes.

Everyone ordered from the menu, which was trying hard to make the food sound better than it was. _Roasted honey ham on a delicately soft white roll_ and _air-light pancakes dotted with fresh blueberries_ seemed like something out of a lengthy eighteenth century novel where the protagonists spent three pages talking about trees or silk curtains instead of the plot.

"I don't think eating anything is a good idea," Wilson said, looking at House. “You can have mine. If you want."

"You're analyzing me, I can tell from your squinting," House said. "And I was going to eat yours anyway."

It was true. Wilson was trying to work out A, what game House was playing and why, and B, what he could do to screw with him. He wasn't getting far.

The table gradually fell silent, as if the will to talk to one another had drained away. Wilson contented himself with looking around the restaurant and thinking vaguely about what could be done with House. All the examples he came up with were embarrassing to some degree. Holding House's hand and running his thumbs over his friend's knuckles or kissing him or doing any of the other things his mind invented late at night wouldn't do anything but make him look like a lovelorn idiot. Wilson _could_ kick House in the balls but that probably wouldn't do much good either.

Wilson removed the hand that had started off holding up his head and somehow wandered to his lips. He glanced at House, unable to stop replaying the events of yesterday. His pounding head didn't help matters. Neither did House's hands, one resting in a relaxed way on the table, the other being used to prop up his head.

_we're both sitting the same way isn't that called..._

There were the damn callouses again, the same ones he'd fallen asleep holding, grabbed yesterday as he pulled House out of the auditorium, after House had pushed their mouths together. The same mouth that had said _I need you._

_mirroring_

It was all happening so fast. It was hard to keep up; Cuddy telling him about the conference on Monday felt lifetimes away, like it hadn’t even been him sitting in her office that day. A month felt even farther, years ago. Like in some minuscule way, deep down, he had always been aware of... something, cloistered in obscurity.

_and doesn’t copying each other mean_

Wilson's realization hadn't been followed by a declaration in the pouring rain or after a frantic dash to catch the plane before it left, carting the pretty blonde love interest away from the chiseled muscles of the main man. It came shortly after he snapped the clasps on a plastic container holding House's very own sandwich. Wilson had had to protect his slightly soggy turkey and rye somehow.

It had become apparent that making food for each other wasn't the pursuit of a normal heterosexual male when Cuddy spotted him trying to covertly carry two identical sandwiches in the direction of House's office and asked "Starving, are we?" with a knowing smile.

"I, yeah." He'd looked down at the pair of sandwiches held out with both hands. "One of them might be for House."

"Thought so. Wouldn't want him to... get... hungry.” Then she hightailed it back to wherever she'd come from, heels clattering on the linoleum.

Wilson had been left outside House's vacant office, head cocked, a sandwich in either palm and a litany of questions bubbling in his head, the first of which to do with Cuddy's phrasing. He had pushed the glass open with his back, still contemplating the sandwiches, and stowed one in the drawer House kept porn in.

That night, after mentally turning the fiasco around a hundred and twelve times, Wilson ended up with a possible explanation for the jump in heart rate that occurred on the rare occasions House touched him. Or any instance a rare genuine smile graced House’s lips.

And now, Wilson couldn't stop retracing every detail of House's every interaction with him from the past month. It was starting to be unbearable, like an itch under his skin that he couldn’t touch.

"Cuddy called me about a case." Cameron was looking at her phone. "Thirty seven year old woman, intermittent fevers, severe joint pain that comes and goes, and headaches."

"Hm. Mildly interesting, in the way that long commutes to grandma’s are interesting.” House paused his tirade to look at Cameron like she said the earth was flat and meant it. “Tell Cuddy I don't want it." House was ripping up the wrapper his straw arrived in and setting the pieces in a pile.

"Why not?" Chase asked, sounding annoyed. "We haven't had a case in weeks, save that little girl.”

"Cuddy's going to make you take it, so you might as well just skip the arguing and agree to it," Wilson said, his voice unsteady. He was nauseous again.

"Never as much fun if there's not a dance before." House took Cameron's straw wrapper and started tearing it between his fingers. "It's the _cumbia_ before Cuddy and I ride a pair of sweaty mules out of our little Colombian town and into the big wide world. She has meningitis."

The pile of ripped paper had grown large enough to cover an entire tile. House inhaled, glancing fiendishly at Wilson, and blew out the breath he held.

"Thank you, I always wanted to look like I got lost in a snow globe."

One of the boys—Wilson didn't look up from the chipped tile he was focusing on in an attempt to abate the still present nausea— began passing out food as he arrived.

A plate covered in eggs arrived under Wilson's nose. They might have been appetizing, under different circumstances, but the smell wafting upwards was intolerable to a queasy stomach. Wilson made an ugly groaning sound and reminded himself to thank Chase and Foreman later for getting out of the way so quickly.

He lurched toward the bathroom in the back of the restaurant. He flung open a stall door, knelt by the toilet, and waited for what seemed like ages but probably was only ten minutes. The porcelain was cold under his hands; it would've been nice against his heated forehead. Wilson clutched the dubiously clean public toilet as if it were a life raft. He didn't dare move, lest last night's fancy dinner make an unwelcome reappearance. Another unknown song was playing faintly in the restaurant's bowels, lingering at the edges of Wilson's hearing.

Footsteps, an unbalanced tread, grew audible as House entered the bathroom via shoving the door open with his cane turned battering ram. Wilson smiled, just a bit, despite his position and the warning prickles in his rapidly cramping legs.

"Your head's almost in the toilet," House said, entering the stall Wilson hadn't bothered to lock.

"Ever observant," Wilson responded, quietly, mostly to himself.

House tapped Wilson's shoulder. His voice was directly overhead. "I brought your water. I figured you'd probably want it after puking out your eyeballs. By the way, those eggs were delicious, shame you didn't try them."

"Ugh, let's," Wilson shifted his grip, "not talk about the eggs."

"Suit yourself. Do you want the water or not? My arm's getting tired." House tapped him on the shoulder again, with a gentleness that was a bit disconcerting.

"Jesus, patience, House. If I move I'll puke."

"I would come down there, but this stall isn't big enough. You'll just have to throw up."

Wilson pulled himself up slowly and with great caution. He looked at House, who was presenting the glass with an odd expression.

"What?"

"Nothing."

The glass was cool albeit slippery with condensation. He sipped from it, taking care to go easy on his fragile stomach, watching House from where he stood all the while. Nothing? In the quiet, Wilson was able to pick up the music once more, low and a bit hard to hear. It was pealing, jaunty even.

**_Wouldn't it be nice if we were older_ **

**_Then we wouldn't have to wait so long_ **

****

**_And wouldn't it be nice to live together_ **

**_In the kind of world where we belong?_ **

Wilson gripped the glass tighter. It tried to escape his clasp.

_**You know it's gonna make it that much better** _

_**When we can say goodnight and stay together** _

Things Wilson wanted to say began edging the tip of his tongue, restrained by fear. Fear of losing his best friend. Fear of upsetting the precarious balance his life had settled into with a groan like a house shifting on its concrete base. Fear, closing his lips but opening his heart. 

_damn it!_

House was stiff, ogling the wall above Wilson's head. His face read a familiar albeit rare expression; a white elephant or blue moon. Eyes widened a touch, mouth set. Slack jawed awe for insecure doctors with chronic leg pain.

Stacy was in the picture the last time this face appeared. Before House's leg. And after, when House was scrabbling and yanking his way into convincing her to drop Mark. And during his extra pain after, surreptitiously, when he thought no one was looking.

House glanced at Wilson's mouth. It was more than a glance but didn’t carry the same insignificance. 

The whole action took about two seconds.

It was both enough in an overwhelming way and not even close all at once.

Grown ass men didn't blush. Wilson wasn't blushing.

_he knows exactly how to fuck with me I'm going to kill him!_

House cleared his throat, made a loose one handed gesture that probably meant ‘I know you're fucking gay! You can't hide from my charm!’ He blinked, looked at Wilson then at the wall, and mumbled “Mandolin— there’s a mandolin in that song.” The _m_ s got caught and garbled in his throat.

Wilson opened his mouth because his brain had decided without his input that he should say something, but House left the bathroom before he could get anything into the air.

***

The whole way home, Wilson pressed his leg against House's, despite thoughts beating like caged birds losing feathers all over the place. Blood thrummed through his temples most of the way; it only paused when they stopped to stretch alongside the road. Revenge was not a dish best served cold, oh no. It was best served in the form of a warm, slightly sweating leg against that of your best friend.

***

It was getting even colder, no doubt about it. Wilson’s breath curled away from his nose and mouth in resemblance to smoke a week later as he stood in the parking lot, looking at the hospital’s towering bricked face. He hadn’t mustered enough courage to mess with House yet. Thinking about it made a squirmy, ambivalent sensation grow in his stomach. 

He sipped his coffee and shouldered his bag and entered the glass double doors. He went to his office and puttered around a while, pretending he was working in case anyone came in.

“House, you’re taking her case!” 

“Make me, devil woman!”

“House, get back here you—!“ 

There was a humming sound outside Wilson’s office door, not to mention the shouting. Through a cracked open door, House zoomed down the hallway on— Wilson blinked— a Segway. Cuddy clopped after him in heels, fuming and muttering to herself. She heard his sputtered laughter and whipped around to glare.

“If looks could kill,” he called, mock-wistfully, clasping his hands over his heart.

Cuddy made a slicing motion across her throat. Wilson shut the door, still laughing.

“He’s ridiculous. Where did he even get that?” Wilson murmured to himself, turning to his desk. 

There was paperwork, sheets and sheets stacked in a thick bundle practically crying to be filled out as it waited on Wilson’s desk. He liked to keep a more detailed profile of each patient than what was required. Writing down quirks or hobbies or family members the patient mentioned made remembering the particulars much easier. There were a few basic patient forms that needed updating as well; thank god those were digitized. 

Wilson sat down and, for a long while, lost himself amongst paper and pen ink. When he took a quick break, thinking of House’s zooming around to avoid responsibility made him happy.

The papers gone, tidied snugly in folders, ready for the patients’ next visits, Wilson stretched and booted up his computer. There were only a few forms to update. It wouldn’t take long at all. The indomitable wall of desk work began to quail in submission, finally. It had been looming for days, and he was glad to be done with it. The sunlight outside on the balcony was beginning to wane with the day itself. 

*** 

Two hours. Two hours of sitting, glaring at the computer, clicking around and occasionally filling a blank. House had come in, those two wasted hours ago, and ruined everything by announcing that he expected Wilson to treat Melissa in tandem with the team’s efforts.

It was time to call it quits. There were patients that didn’t expressly need to be seen, but doing something, anything, would be a welcome distraction. 

Wilson tapped his fingers on his desk, deliberating a second more, and left the room before he could crystallize a thought.

“Back again?” Iris asked, turning her head as Wilson came into her room. A light antiseptic smell drifted towards him as he neared the white-sheeted bed. 

Wilson smiled. “Just thought I would check in.” 

Iris narrowed her eyes and affected a slight frown. 

“I know, I’ve already been in today. Nothing’s wrong, don’t worry.” 

The tension in Iris’ face relaxed. “Something is wrong, just not with me.” 

“Oh?” Hell, was it that obvious? “What makes you think that?” Wilson spun the chair that had been waiting by Iris’ bed and sat. The chair’s back planks faced her in a sort of metaphorical shield. 

“You’ve been shuffling your feet and dancing around since you got here. Reminds me of a little boy told to sit still for longer than ten minutes.” 

Iris was sharper than a business executive wearing a Rolex, despite her age and poor vision. Her pale eyes, splotched with irregular patches of melanoma, could see right through him. She stared at him, expectantly. Bullshitting wouldn’t work but he would try anyway.

“Too much coffee, I just got a new machine at home and wow, it makes a lot more than my old one.” 

Iris laughed, hearty sounds deep in her paper thin chest. “You need to work on your excuses. That was the worst lie I’ve heard in months, maybe longer.” Iris reached out a hand lined and thinned and liverspotted by time. Wilson took it. “Are you going to tell me or are we going to talk about my grandbabies again?” 

“It’s— how is Kalvin doing, he’s in high school now, has he found a girlfriend yet?” 

Iris laughed again, deeper still than previously. She wiped her eyes with a corner of bedsheet and said, “God no, that boy’s gayer than paisley print. He hasn’t found a boyfriend as far as I know, although that wouldn’t be something he’d want to talk about with me anyway. He thinks it’s too ‘personal’. I say to hell with that, I don’t care, but what can you do. Youth.” 

Wilson fiddled with a clump of loose chair fiber with his free hand. The hospital really needed new, less frayed-to-hell furniture. “Well, let’s hope he finds someone when the time is right. How’s Claire doing?”

“Busy as a bee in winter. She loves her carpentry classes. She made a beautiful cutting board for her mother, took her a month. Now, quit trying to change the subject. What’s wrong? I won’t tell a soul.” Iris patted the hand she clasped with her free one and gave him an earnest, beseeching look. Her blonde, almost nonexistent eyebrows were raised.

Wilson took a deep breath, his loose hand drifting in the empty space. “It’s— well, it’s not really my business.” 

“Quit it, you’re wiggling around like an eel again. More details, please, if you don’t mind giving them up.” She was smiling at him, warmth in her crinkled mouth and corners of her eyes. And she had promised not to tell. 

“My friend— well—“ he nearly explained the conference, but that was not for patient ears. There was enough material for the rumor mill to grind dry as it was. “There’s this new pa— friend he has. She likes him.” 

“So?” 

“He seems to— genuinely enjoy being around her. That’s a rarity, for him. He’s normally only interested in sex, not anything deeper. Emotions are,” Wilson paused. Emotions were hard for House. He had them, as much as he was loath to admit it. Had them to excess, even. Why else would he devote so much puzzle-solving brainpower to helping people? 

_maybe he just wanted to spite his dad and go into medicine instead of the military and he doesn’t really care at all_  


“Not his forte. But he honestly seems to feel— for her. And she likes him, it’s obvious, even though they just met in person. She laughs at his antics and understands his humor and lets him get away with things that make him happy...” 

Iris had dropped his hand while he was talking. “What does that matter?” She patted the hand Wilson now rested on the bed’s rubber coated guardrail. 

“She doesn’t,” 

_know him like I do_

“seem like anyone who would,” Wilson shrugged, “be there. Last longer than a fling, just enough enough to hurt him when she leaves.” 

_or if she does stay then what happens to me? God, that’s so selfish_

“I want him to be happy. And I guess, if she makes him happy even for a while, that’s not wasted time. And when she does leave, I’ll—“ 

_be there to help pick up the pieces_

Iris smiled a soft little smile, the kind you give to children that exasperate you as much as you love them. “Better to have loved and lost?” 

Wilson nodded. And wasn’t it? Wasn’t it better to care for House however he could, even if House had someone else? _House may not care_ a devil’s voice whispered, _but I do._ Wilson didn’t regret his heart’s decision, even if it was inconvenient at times. And he really did want House happy. If he was happy with someone then it didn’t matter who. 

_I hoped it would be me_

It didn’t matter if House cared about patients; he helped them regardless. It didn’t matter if he cared about Wilson; Wilson cared about him regardless.  


***

“Why are you avoiding me? You skipped our lunch for the past five days,” House complained, hours after his assertion about a certain brunette patient.

Wilson rolled his eyes. He would have put his hands on his hips, but they were otherwise occupied. “I’m not. I’m here right now.” 

House frowned, emphatic. “I feel like you aren’t _seeing me_.” 

Wilson looked up from the IV he’d been administering to the arm of the small girl lying wide-eyed in bed next to him. He stared at House. House stared back. 

“Do I _see_ you now?” 

House took the opportunity to roll his eyes. If he weren’t so stubborn, he would have broken eye contact all together. Probably. Wilson didn’t know what went on in that brain all the time, even if time had honed his estimation skills.

“This isn’t even my patient. Remind me, why am I here?” He switched tones after snipping at House, affecting a softer voice to thank the little girl for cooperating. Poor thing, she was only around seven. She was definitely on the mend though; she had eaten a tray and a half of her lunch. 

“Because I dragged you out of your office?” House was swinging his cane back and forth across the ground, sitting in a chair next to the bed. Where Wilson was doing all the work. Work that wasn’t even his. 

“Quit staring so hard, you’ll rupture something. You could leave. I’ll just visit Melissa on my own.” House swung the cane harder and flipped the hooked end toward the ground. 

Wilson made toward the door once he was done with the IV, not looking at House. “You do that.” 

“She has skin cancer!” 

“Which is one of the most treatable cancers! You don’t need to torture me by making me go along! Figure out what else is wrong with her with your team!” It had been five days since she came to the hospital. House’s attention had been all but eaten for five whole days, which was just fine by him. But they were turning out to be some of the longest five days of Wilson’s life. The first divorce had seemed longer, as if the dull cloud that surrounded him would stretch into eternity. Until House bailed him out with an easy smile and an _“I’ll take care of this.”_

“Torture you?” House asked. “How does seeing a patient torture you?” His voice mellowed from annoyance to confusion. 

“You and her and your,” Wilson gestured at he door, taking care to avoid looking to his right, “your sexual tension. Will they, won’t they. It’s irritating.” 

“Jealousy is a sin, Wilson. I’m ashamed, I thought you were pure as a nun,” House said. 

“I’m not ‘pure’, I’m not jealous, and your sarcasm makes me want to strangle you with a phone cord.” 

“You won’t be able to, when I choke you first and leave your body for the cops to find while I take up fishing in the Gulf of Mexico, sipping a little pink martini and thinking about what a good friend you were before you were obviously jealous that a hot patient likes me.”

Would it be easier to take the whole landline to House or detach the cord and just use that? There would be more mobility with just the cord, that might be they way to go.

“What’s sexual tension?” a little voice asked in the silence, shy and unsure. 

Oh, shit. 

“Bye House!” Wilson called as he sped out the door. Not his patient, not his problem.

He went to the cafeteria, hoping that House would leave him alone with his thoughts for ten minutes. House was like an attention-starved dog sometimes, even more so since the conference. And he would want to talk about Melissa again. The phrase “torture me” was a very unfortunate slip up that would draw House in like a moth to flame. Or a beaver to a stream, or Peter Rabbit to Whole Foods, or whatever other bullshit metaphor he could think of. Wilson found a table near the back, hidden from view of the door. Someone had left a crumpled, coffee-marked newspaper on the booth’s seat. 

The article on green sources of energy was not edifying in the least, but it was better than nothing. Better than watching paint dry, or grass grow, or explaining sexual tension to a curious grade schooler. Another article passed before his eyes, and another, without anything significant sticking.

‘Torture me’? That was probably the worst thing he could have said. Or ‘seeing Melissa look at you the way she does makes me want to claw her eyes out while wishing her the best of luck because I know how difficult you are, House.’ That wouldn’t have gone over well either. 

“I need to talk to you,” House said, sitting down across from the newspaper screen Wilson knew wouldn’t hide him. He had come to the cafeteria sooner than Wilson thought he would. 

“So talk.” He imagined House’s face screwing up in frustration and was glad for the newspaper hiding his satisfied smirk. 

“I need a sample of Melissa’s skin.” 

“So? How is that my problem? You have three people paid to be at your beck and call.” 

“Will you quit being so bitchy?” House hissed in a whisper. “Ever since I kissed you you’ve been all—“ 

Wilson blurted, “I haven’t been all anything, you just annoy the hell out of me.” 

“See, you just did it again! What did I do?” 

_it’s more of what I want you to do_

“You just need to—“ 

_stop being everywhere and filling my head with things you don’t want_

“Leave me alone. Just let me be sit here and read the newspaper without interruptions from people who want me to do their work for them. Just, _go away,_ House. I can’t stand to look at you right now.

House made a huffing-breathing sound. “If that’s what you want. She asked for you. And normally you like— never mind.” His voice was curt. 

“Wait, that came out wrong, House—!” 

House was weaving through the lunch crowd with surprising speed. He pushed through the thronged people faster than Wilson could; the crowd was more resistant to parting a second time. House passed the lunch counter with its metal divots filled with a myriad of food for the desperate. He’d almost made it to the exit. Wilson hoped for a nurse to trip in front of the door and block House’s escape route.

“House!” Wilson called, reaching a hand for the rumpled sleeve of his suit coat but not quite meeting it. House didn’t react. 

“House,” Wilson said again, plaintively, to the door closed in his face. 

There was an unfortunate absence of uncoordinated nurses. 

Now what was he supposed to do? Wilson rubbed the edges of his brow with one hand. House was pissed, and Wilson caused it. He was getting ridiculous about Melissa. Even if she did make Wilson want to take up knife throwing. She was infuriating with her goddamn chapstick and doe eyes and stupid little— 

Wilson unclenched the fists made without his conscious attention. It was time to talk with someone, excise the jealousy before it wormed its ugly way between he and House any more. Maybe he could dilute the things he wanted to say to House but didn’t dare, and let them out in a way. Each visit to Melissa pushed him a little closer to spilling like an over-full cup, making a mess for everyone involved.

***

“What was that?" Cuddy asked, cocking her head. "I don't think I caught it." 

Wilson sighed and curled his fingers over his knees. "I said," he swallowed, trying to move the lump of embarrassment padding his throat, "I said I'm in love with House." 

A moment passed.

“And I’m jealous of his patient.” 

"You don't seem very surprised," he continued, after another excruciating pause in which embarrassment threatened to leave him gasping for air on the floor. Thinking of telling someone was much better than actually going out and doing it.

"Why would I be?" she smiled. To Wilson it was like nails raking down a chalkboard; unbearable for him but just fine for her. "Did you want me to be surprised?" 

"Yes! No! I don't know!" 

"Aw, look, your face is all red." 

Wilson covered his eyes with one hand as if warding away a headache. "This is humiliating." 

"You're acting like a twelve year old girl that's just discovered boys aren't full of cooties after all. I have to tease you at least a little. How long?" 

Wilson groaned, hand still firmly over his eyes so he didn't have to look at Cuddy's undeniably smirking face. "The— the jealousy or the—“ 

“The being in love part. We’ll get to the jealousy later.” 

“God, I don't fucking know. A, a while." 

"And you haven't said a word? You plan on letting it... fester, without doing anything?" 

"Yes?" That was certainly much less dangerous. What House didn't know wouldn't kill him.

_even if I want to tell him and sometimes it  
almost spills out like a leaky faucet_

"Do something about it," she told him, leaning back in her office chair. "You're House's best friend, it'll be fine. It's not a good idea to let things like this go.” 

Wilson dropped his hand to glare. "You don't even believe that." 

"I do. I heard about— the conference." 

"My personal life just can't stay personal, can it?" He was going to have to murder Chase, or Cameron, or Foreman. Or all three. At once.

"From what I hear," she began to reorganize a few papers on her desk, trying to hide an upturn of the lips, "he kissed you in an auditorium full of people, whacked some asshole on the head, and ran out with you in a metaphorical blaze of gunfire." 

Wilson was so, so tempted to leave. Airing his feelings like a responsible adult was bullshit. It would be so easy to get up and grab the doorhandle and lock himself in his office where Cuddy couldn't ruthlessly interrogate him with a chair, length of rope, and bright flashlight. "What you heard," was it possible for a face to be used as a frying pan? "is correct." 

"See, what more do you need?" 

_not to lose him_

"A definitive answer. And complimentary therapy." 

Cuddy huffed a laugh. "Therapy can't be complimentary, we have to make money. A definitive answer, though, that could be arranged..." she trailed off. 

"No! No, that's more than fine." 

"You could just ask him and this would all be over. He'll be difficult because he always is but obviously you like that." 

Wilson blinked. "I don't— I don't even know what to say to that." 

Cuddy smiled again. “You’re jealous of his patient too? The woman with fevers and joint pain?”

“And skin cancer. Which means I have to be involved.” 

“If you want, I can assign another oncologist to her case. Although I don’t think that would help all that much.” 

“If House asks me again, I just won’t go in. Problem solved.” Wilson swallowed. “The thing is, I don’t want to be jealous of her but I can’t, I don’t know, turn it off. I want him to be— happy with someone, even if it’s not me. And what if she’s the one to do that for him? What right do I have to take that away?” 

“You need to talk to him,” Cuddy responded, gently. “He cares about you more than some random woman that wants to have sex with him.” She smiled at him again, for what felt like the millionth time. “You’re good for him, remember that.” 

Wilson let out a rueful laugh. “I also let him get away with popping Vicodin like they’re going to stop making it.” 

“Only because you don’t want to see him hurting. It’s sweet, really.” 

“I think that’s my cue to leave.” 

As he scurried away, Cuddy called, “talk to him!” through cupped hands. 

That night, Wilson fell asleep with his mind whirring over what to say to House and faint voices playing from the TV. 

***

_House, I need you to listen. I’m sorry for yesterday, I’m sorry I upset you, and I’m sorry for being bitchy._

Wilson repeated the mantra again in his head as he pulled into his parking spot. He repeated it as he walked in the building, after he said hello to his assistant, and after Cuddy gave him a look and tapped her wrist where a watch would be if she wore one. 

_Oh, and I’m sorry for being jealous of Melissa._

He opened his office door, hung up his coat, put his bag in the corner. He closed his office door, and went to find House. 

House was skulking in the conference room adjacent to his office. The lights were off, and he was rolling the red and gray tennis ball back and forth along the table with a blank expression. 

_damn it_

Wilson tapped the glass and pointed at the locked door. House frowned at him and shrugged.

“I want to talk to you,” Wilson mouthed. 

“And I want Melissa to tie me to a chair,” House mouthed back, and promptly flipped Wilson off. 

Scowling, Wilson gave him the bird with both hands. “I was going to say I was sorry for being a bitch.” 

“No, you aren’t,” House crossed his arms. His frown made a set of lines spanning his forehead. “You’re being bitchy right now.” 

“So are you!”

Wilson huffed. House was goddamn infuriating sometimes, when he decided to be more of an ass than normal. He’d wanted to apologize so everything could go back to normal... or as normal as things could be. He took a breath and closed his eyes a second, trying to recollect. House needed to hear— well, see, they were still mouthing the words through glass— this.

“I am. I’m sorry I upset you.” 

“‘Sorry’ doesn’t cut it.” House turned around and refused to respond to Wilson’s rapping on the glass. 

“You’re acting like a child, House!” he yelled, still banging the glass. 

House put his fingers in his ears and spun to yell back, “So are you!” His face was stony. 

Wilson kicked the glass and returned to his office.

House avoided him the rest of the workday. At least House was able to handle patients on his own for a change.

***

The bar was packed. Wilson has no way of knowing if that was common or not; he didn’t come here often out of personal preference. The drinks were terrible. He wanted stale beer, though, wanted to get drunk without enjoying it. 

The counter was tacky in places where alcohol had been spilled from glasses by the overenthusiastic motions of the drunk. He avoided putting his elbows in the sticky places as much as possible.

“What do you want, hon?” a bartender asked, slicing a lime and swaying to the awful music blasting from speakers someplace in the room. 

“Beer. Thank you.” He might have drank before he came. He might have been a little tipsy already. Or little more than that. 

“Keep them coming.” 

Wilson drank his beer, and surveyed the patronage out of the corner of his eye. There wasn’t much else to do; drinking was a mindless, droning task. 

*** 

“Hey uh, should we be worried about that guy out there? The one sitting at the bar by himself that’s downed six beers in the last twenty minutes?” the bartender asked, yanking her hair into a ponytail as she strode into the back storeroom. 

“Is he paying?” 

She nodded. “He’s pretty far gone, but yeah. He was already a little drunk when he came in.” 

The busboy shrugged and dipped his hands back in the frothy water. “Water his drinks down if you’re worried, he won’t notice. God, we need to get a real dishwasher.” 

She nodded again, not listening, and wove around squeaky floorboards and fallen popcorn back to the bar. The man, still alone at the stool closest to the door, held a piece of popcorn between an unsteady thumb and forefinger. He was aiming it up at the row of artistic lightbulbs hanging on a metal beam above his head as if trying to see through it. Like it held something important in the center that he knew was there but couldn’t parse out. 

“That popcorn insult your mother or something?” 

He turned around slowly, as though he hadn’t noticed anyone approaching. “No.” 

“Want anything to eat?” 

“No, thanks.” His mouth was turned down in a understated way that she hadn’t noticed in the first glimpse. “You work here? You’re different from the one earlier.” 

“Yeah, his shift ended. Student loans, as for me. And on top of that I’m trying to get into med school, so I need whatever job I can get. Money doesn’t grow on trees and all that.”

“Oh. Me too.” His brow furrowed. “No, I already did that. What’s, what’s your name?” 

“Sofía. What do you mean, you already did what?” Sofía smiled. This drunk, forlorn guy seemed nice in the dopey way of the shitfaced.

“Med school. I’m a— what’s it called? Cancer. Oncol...” his brow furrowed harder. 

“You’re an oncologist?” He was trying so, so hard. It was actually kind of funny. God only knew if he was actually a doctor or not. 

“Yeah.” He nodded once, decisively. “You don’t believe me. I can tell,” he laughed, wearing a beatific grin, and began digging in the pockets of his coat one by one. 

This guy was going to get robbed. He was fumbling with an inner pocket like he had never owned a coat before and picked up the one he wore in a derelict garbage can outside. Sofía imagined him pulling the black coat out of a can and knitting his eyebrows in confusion like he was doing in front of her as he tried to put it on backwards. 

After a moment more, he made a noise and pulled out a laminated card. Sofía took it. He was going to get robbed for sure. 

“Nice to meet you, Doctor James Wilson. Head of the oncology department, I’m impressed,” she smirked, hoping he was more competent sober. She handed the card back. “What brings you here to scrutinize our popcorn?”

The man—Wilson— sighed. “Lots of things. Looots of things.” 

“Like?” Sofía couldn’t resist pressing; this shift, although busy, had been monotonous as hell. 

“Broad, or narrowly speaking?” he emphasized the _ly,_ dragging it into a _lee_. 

“Broad to narrow?” 

“Sexual identity crisis. In love with my friend. My _best_ friend. Who’s not in love with me, doesn’t even know. Much less want— that. And I think I made him sad. He’s always sad,” Wilson’s face went sloppy with emotion. Sofía hastily decided to serve him mostly water. All she needed was a crier: they were bad for business, though she did feel for the guy. 

“Well it can’t be _that_ bad—“ 

“I told him to leave me alone, to go,” his voice wavered and Sofía’s heart sank to her knees, “away. Meanly. He— I’m— he doesn’t have a lot of people that like him, and I do, and I basically told him to fuck off after keeping my distance because of the conference. And I’ve avoided him even more since Melissa—“ Wilson’s lips faltered.

Sofía opened her mouth to say something placating but Wilson barreled on before she could. 

“And I tried to say sorry but that made it worse and now he’s mad and I told my boss and a lady I went on a date with and all our coworkers know because they’re smart and they figured it out but why can’t I tell him?” 

His eyes were dampening at the corners. Sofía darted a glance through the storeroom’s window, but Adam was still at the sink, providing no help.

“And he makes comments and I make comments and he let me see him in the _shower_ and he whacked a guy with his cane and he,” Wilson hiccuped, his face blooming red, “kissed me. But we don’t talk about that because it was to make a point and he doesn’t know what it means to me and we fell asleep on top of each other in a car and he,” he paused to draw breath and Sofía braced her hands on the counter. “He calls me and one time he caught me— and I told him not to tell and he didn’t and we used to live in his ap—apartment and I ended up doing all the dishes then I moved into a hotel because it was too hard to be so close and he’s always miserable because he doesn’t want to get hurt but I did! I hurt him.” 

Sofía gaped a moment, lost. “Do you want, uh, a tissue?” He had broken into weeping at some indeterminate point while verbally vomiting his life’s story. Sofía shuffled her feet and hoped for Adam to hurry the hell up. This was turning into a lot more than the friendly banter she had expected when they were talking about medicine.

Wilson sniffed and assented. “Sorry. I’m drunk and sad, and a little pissed at him and that doesn’t help. Sorry.” 

“It’s okay, don’t worry about it.” She passed him a box of Kleenex found in the shelf behind the bar. “Really, no sweat. I think you, ah, need to talk to him.” 

In between eye wiping, Wilson said, “S’what my boss told me.” 

“Consider it, really.” She tried to smile. Poor drunk fuck. He had no idea what he was doing. “Maybe... calm down a minute and call him?” 

Wilson frowned with the effort required to consider as fast as a drunk brain could. He nodded eventually, and Sofía breathed a sigh of relief. She was glad she didn’t know these people, the mentioned coworkers and boss. Was it like this, all the time? How did they stand it?

***

House pulled up to the curb, revving his motorcycle for a second while he gathered his thoughts. Wilson had called him, sounding drunk and shaky from a bar he hated, and House was a little concerned over what he would find inside.

Or a lot concerned. If he was honest.

He pushed through the surprisingly well-made wooden door with his shoulder. The annoying little bell chimed, grating House’s already-frazzled nerves. His hands felt like they were too sizes too large; he didn’t know what to do with them. He settled one on his cane and the other drifted limp by his side.

“Wilson?” His friend was sitting at the bar itself, away from the booths filled with red-faced people, holding an empty glass of beer. His hair was stuck up in all directions and his eyes were pink. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” He didn’t meet House’s eyes. House felt his pulse jump with adrenaline he wished he could control.

“No, you’re not, you hate it here. The last time we came you got drunk, smacked the counter and made me feel your hand because it was sticky.” And warm. He remembered. How could he ever forget?

_Wilson, sitting at a different stool at this awful bar. Then. House couldn’t even remember what day it was, or what season. Maybe summer. Wilson hitting the countertop, making a loud noise. People turning around, looking for the source of the sound reflexively. House glaring at them in turn so they went back to chewing up their livers and inhibition._

__

__

_Wilson, proffering his hand with a grin House had counted the occurrences of._

_That smile came out more frequently in his presence than any other. (Although House had also observed that particular grin around a shelter cat that was obviously on its last life. The thing hadn’t had anything more than peach fuzz over its entire scabby face.)_

_Wilson, sitting in the din of the bar without it affecting him, like he didn’t even hear the clamor of people or smell the alcohol and vomit. Wilson made a bubble, a little sphere around himself that House was allowed to be safe in. Allowed to look at his friend’s slightly pinked cheeks (the bubble couldn’t keep the temperature at bay, it seemed) and bright smile. Allowed to linger over his hair, brushing his ears and the back of his neck. Allowed to ponder the lines at the edges of his eyes. Encouraged, even, to make eye contact with eyes the color of cinnamon and nutmeg and damp soil that reminded him of cooking smells from his mother’s kitchen, of playing outside in the sunlight before he thought he didn’t need anyone._

_Eyes that were always there to bring him back to Earth, back to stability._

_Wilson didn’t know that House was enjoying the way he was sitting, with his knees facing House’s own. He didn’t know how much he was enjoying drinking awful beer and betting on what other customers would get drunk the quickest (extra points if they made a scene). He surely didn’t know how aware House was of his fingers, laid over his hand._

_And, Wilson didn’t know how much Vicodin he was planning on taking to suffocate the loneliness he knew he’d feel later. How much he would berate himself, drilling the mantra everybody lies and knowing it to be true. He was the first one to make fictions about not needing relationships, connections. Love. It hurt when taken away, so why have it at all?_

Wilson brought him back to the present by whining something.

“What?”

“I’m sorry, sorry, House.” He was curled into himself, hunched over. Small, defeated.

“For what? Being a b—“ House censured himself. He didn’t want to make things worse, which that probably would, not now. Any other time, maybe. It was such fun winding Wilson up, making him gripe over things House said and did. Annoying people in general was amusing, but Wilson always bit back. Years had taught House that Wilson liked having his buttons prodded at with an inappropriate comment or a cane. House hypothesized, privately, that none of his erstwhile wives had annoyed him in the direction he secretly enjoyed. They had made divisions, not the right kind of joking diversions. 

And more recently, innuendo was doing wonders. Seeing Wilson babble after hearing a suggestive comment was often the highlight of his day. It was exciting, even more so than their usual interactions, which House took care to distract himself from. He didn’t want to make an effort to quantify what he felt, because there wasn’t a unit of measurement exact enough. Or large enough.

Wilson nodded emphatically. “‘M sorry for saying you needed to go away and leave me alone and for being all bitchy after the ki—conference, and for upsetting you and for being jealous of Melissa.” 

“Okay.” He thought a moment. Being shut out, denied time around work together after giving the kind of relationship he craved more than he wanted to admit a shot was like being squeezed through a meat grinder and trying to pretend it wasn’t agony. Wilson’s disregard carved a bleeding chasm that House taped a bandaid over and pretended didn’t exist. 

“I was being dramatic with the communication through glass thing.” He meant it. Wilson telling him to go away was nothing; it happened often enough. House knew Wilson didn’t have the heart to wound him on purpose— insults were only words. But Wilson had been giving him the slip for a week, exacerbated by Melissa’s admission to the hospital. Wilson’s avoidance stung. It was his nice-enough-to-help-old-people-across-the-street-like-a-boyscout way of saying ‘House, you overstepped this time, don’t kiss me again, who do you think you are?’ 

“You were,” Wilson said, hinting at a smile. “You could have let me in the room.” 

“But that wouldn’t have been half as much fun,” House said, letting himself hint at a smile too. The stupid lighting in this place was making shadows across Wilson’s face that House couldn’t quit looking at. Wilson was leaning close. He smelled like a beer keg. “You don’t have to be sorry,” House said, quietly. 

“What?” 

“I said, you don’t have to be sorry.”

“But I upset you,” Wilson was confused, House could tell from his tone. 

“It’s— it’s fine, you can have your reactions to things. I got the hint.” House met his eyes briefly then began examining the wood grain of the sticky counter.” 

Wilson was about to say something, he could tell, but this conversation was too difficult to continue with. “Why don’t we get out of here?” 

Wilson nodded. He fumbled in his coat and pulled his wallet free after a struggle in which House almost wanted to reach out and help. 

“You’re gonna have a hell of a hangover,” House said, standing and reaching his hand out. He doubted if Wilson could get up by himself at this point of inebriation. 

Wilson took his hand without hesitation. “Don’t remind me, I thought last time was bad.” 

House let go of his hand as soon as he was upright. No need to linger if Wilson didn’t want that. He led the way to the door, Wilson following on weak legs. The fucking bell signaled their freedom into the crisp night air. 

“C’mon. I’m going to need you keys, I don’t trust you to hold on to the motorcycle this hammered.” 

But—“ Wilson had a confused line down the center of his eyebrows. It made House want to smile. Or touch him. House turned his head in the other direction. “You’re gonna leave it here?” 

“If it gets stolen, you can pay for another, faster one. Something sexy.” 

“Didn’t I already pay for it?” 

“I paid you back for it, so not technically.” 

Wilson started laughing. It began as little chortles, and grew steadily into full bodied gasps of pleasure. Wilson was so focused on laughing as they wandered slowly into the gravel parking lot that he walked right over a rock the size of a tennis ball. 

Any other time, Wilson’s reflexes would have taken care of the problem and House wouldn’t have been obligated to drop his cane, dart forward, and catch him before he hit the ground. 

Later, he would realize his arm had automatically sought the warmth under Wilson’s coat. He would remember detecting hard scapula under skin, under a thin shirt, even though the touch was short. House would end up not thinking about those memories and the thoughts they engendered with shitty early morning television and the chalkiness of Vicodin. He’d make popcorn and stare at it until Cuddy called to tell him he really had to come in, yes, right now. 

“Jesus, you’re like a sack of flour,” House grunted, pushing Wilson up against the bar’s brick wall to steady him. Wilson said nothing, only laughed. He was close, near enough to breathe in House’s ear. 

“Wilson?” 

“What, House?” He was grinning the grin, the special one. 

“You have to let go of my shoulders,” House almost didn’t want him to, but the awkward position was making frissons of pain up and down his leg. He was close enough for House to see every line, every pore. It was nice, being so close. In the bubble. Wilson’s neck was right there. So was his mouth. 

Wilson noticed, out of it as he was, and let go. 

“And I still need your keys.” 

He looked troubled a moment, then began searching his coat. “They’re in here... why does this have so many goddamn pockets...” 

House watched him feel the same pocket three times and frustration won out. He reached into Wilson’s coat, one pocket after the next, quickly, so it would be over. There was no way not to be hyper aware of the fabric under his touch. It was smooth, the stitches making flat little rows. Wilson was a goddamn furnace. The pockets were a sizeable distance from his body, but House’s hands were getting unaccountably warm. His face might have been a little warm as well.

“My, my hotel room sucks,” Wilson murmured out of nowhere. House’s heart surged with affection; warm and luminous as a solar flare. 

“My apartment is pretty great,” House returned, time much more gentle than his hands. He still hadn’t found the damn keys. 

“Top pocket, maybe?” Wilson said. His pupils were dilated. House chose to believe that was because of the dim light cast by the bar’s myriad neon signs. Any other option could be attributed to drunkenness. 

House reached into the top pocket and withdrew his prize. His heart was beating a rapid drumbeat in his chest. Wilson drew a little closer, and House thought he might snap his cane from the pressure he was forcing down on it. 

Wilson almost said something, but didn’t. He got even closer. They were only inches apart, and House’s brain started thinking about what he wanted his new cane to look like. Maybe glossy red, or matte black? 

Wilson screwed up his face and licked his lips and—

Blinding light burned into House’s retinas. Both he and Wilson turned and squinted from the change from cloaking semi-dark to revealing brightness. The car, noisy and belching exhaust, was familiar in the way that mothballs and nursing home smell were familiar: unwelcome, uncomfortable, not something to be mentioned, but something you almost expected. 

“Oh, shit—“ said Wilson,

“Is that— it is—“ said House. He sprang away from Wilson as if he were a startled rabbit who’d scented the fox close in the wind. Wilson blinked, owlish, as he let himself slide down the brick wall and out of sight from the truck’s dashboard. House stood with one hand death gripping his cane, the other shoved in his pocket. 

His brain had been shot offline, it seemed. For the first time in a long time, he was unable to reach any witty comeback.

“Goddamnit Chase, look what you fucking did!” Cameron yelled, her voice emanating from the passenger seat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the long gap in between updates. The next chapter won’t have such a lengthy wait.


End file.
